


The Great American Novel

by Arsenic



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Angst, Branding, Come Shot, Dirty Talk, Domestic Discipline, Double Penetration, Drama, Exhibitionism, Fisting, Light BDSM, M/M, Object Penetration, Rape/Non-con Elements, Roleplay, Romance, Sensation Play, Sex Toys, Spanking, Threesome, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-29
Updated: 2007-08-29
Packaged: 2020-04-05 04:16:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 201,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19040959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic





	1. Author's Notes

On the morning of February 27th, I sent Luciamad an email from work. She had just recently gotten herself into bandom and although Luc is v. v. multi-fannish, it was clear that this one was special. Luc's relationship to most of her fandoms is academic, theoretical, and involves a certain amount of remove. This one was knocking at her walls. I was determined to encourage it.

She was already starting to talk herself out of it, both her inner monologue and outside forces taking her out of the fandom and I was damned if I was going to allow that to happen, so I wrote her a cheer up!fic. A tiny thing. Maybe 200 words or so. In the email. She loved it. Like, really loved it. So I sent her another one. A bit of a continuation.

Now, let's be clear: I was not in the fandom at this point. I had no interest in being so. It wasn't my type of music, all the guys looked alike to me, and I'd already had one RPS fandom break my heart. I was steering clear.

Only the email chain continued. And soon what had been one thread (Scenes from a Bus: Gerard/Frank, Mikey/Pete, Mikey/Frank) accidentally became two. See, I had heard about The Bottling and I actually kind of did know who Ryan was, just because when Luc showed me her picture file so that when she would tell me things I wouldn't have to look at her blankly, Ryan had been the one that I'd instantly _seen_. That was all I knew. Brendon had been bottled, Ryan was beautiful. I wrote a scene, and the second thread began (Good Boys: Ryan/Brendon). The third thread, (42: Bob/Spencer) came about simply due to the blinding hotness of that idea, and the need for Spencer to have a little love, because Ryan is one high-maintenance best friend. This was now the middle of March and I was on the cusp of joining fandom.

The fourth (Eight Times: Gerard/JC Chasez) and fifth (The 3%: Jon/Pete) threads came only later, when we had realized that the first three threads were actually one story. We didn't know this until pretty late in.

How is that possible, you ask? Well, for one thing, none of this was written like an actual story. It was all just reams upon reams of different scenes written in absolutely NO chronological order, based on prompts that Luc sent me that could be as vague as a word or as specific as a full paragraph of EXACTLY what she wanted. As that would suggest, there was no plan to this. In fact, I had no intention of anyone but Luc ever seeing this. We had a joke that started one evening where I was all, "One day I shall write The Great American Novel about the great trials and tribulations of these bands across the years." The name sort of stuck.

Then the beast, or TGAN, started to grow into hundreds of pages of fic, and we started to think that maybe, just maybe, this was something that should be shared. I also started to realize that this was so much a part of my genesis of writing in this fandom, so much a fact of the decisions I made regarding characterizations and my involvement in this bandom world that NOT to post was a little on the dishonest side. That said, there were _lots_ of problems with that decision.

The first was whether or not to form it into a linear narrative. We eventually came down on the side that we had to, even though we feel it actually loses a lot in the translation, and there are times when the transitions are more implicit than explicit (there are, in fact, times when it feels like things are simply MISSING) which makes me mildly uncomfortable as a writer, but to fix it would have meant messing with the basic nature of the story, and I was unwilling to do that. (Also, I think there might be some worth in testing the boundaries of my comfort zone.) All that said, we felt that to not have a beginning/middle/end made it somewhat impenetrable. However, because there are multiple POVs that were written as the idea or prompt came along, there are oftentimes things that overlap, that go backwards a bit, or don't sync precisely.

The second was how to link all the stories together when they are actually all occurring in the same timeline, and often overlap. (See above note re: POV, but also, there was the issue of the way the plotlines intersect and depend upon each other.) In the end we decided to have each of the threads stand on its own, and hope that people would be patient enough with me, with the stories, to read each and make their own connections. It is not a perfect solution, if anything, it is indecently imperfect, but it was the best of what we saw our choices as being.

The third was what to take out, because it NEEDED to be pared down. We took out a veritable novel's worth of scenes. Close to 117K words. (Total posted word count ended up being slightly over 200K.)

The fourth was realizing that for so long, my knowledge of canon had been so bad--or I had willfully ignored what I knew because I had no intention of posting this, it was simply play--that this was going to need to be an AU, because some of the things--like Panic playing at Warped before they actually ever would have released a CD, or like My Chem and Panic playing in multiple tours together, or like Bob and Ray being vegans (yeah, don't ask; I might have discovered DEEPLY wrong canon there, for a bit) were just too central to or interwoven with the rest of the fic to find a way around them. So yes, if you read it, go in expecting an AU that closely mirrors reality and if you're like "that's not canon!" you're totally, totally right.

Basically: this is not the easiest story to read. It's long and not plot-driven, not at all. And all five threads are needed to best understand each one separately.

Luc, who has spent hours, days, probably weeks, all told, reforming this, finding a timeline for it, bringing it into existence with the strength of her desires, says I need to believe in it, and I'm trying, because I do _love_ it, but loving is different than believing.

Here is what I do believe: I have written this story over a period of more than six months. (From the first scene on 2/27 to the last scene, which was written 8/27. That was actually just coincidence.) This pre-existed everything, including Wednesday-verse. I have written it for one of the people I love absolute most in this entire world. It is a love letter of the grandest sort to her, and to fandom. Every one of the characters has become my baby, most of what is written here is my personal canon regardless of actual possibility. If that interests you, give it a shot. If not, I can't say I blame you.

In the unimportant-but-I-feel-worth-mentioning category, there are two significant instances of prostitution in this fic. They were what got me started thinking about Wednesday-verse.

**Announcement** : I have taken down "Little Drummer Boys" as it is, and always has been, part of "42." Most of the scenes from it can be found therein, if anyone wants them.

**Warnings** : There is a ton of sex in this fic. Luc likes sex. Some of it is kinky. There is role-playing, DP, slight BDSM, come shots, spanking--both erotic and discipline-oriented--non-con, branding, dirty-talk, toys, object penetration, fisting, voyeurism/exhibitionism, very slight sensory play, and threesomes.

Guidelines: "Good Boys" can _mostly_ be read on its own, as can the overwhelming majority of "Scenes from a Bus." (As such, I would start with one of them.) To read "42" and "The 3%" you probably need to have at least read "Good Boys". "Eight Times" might be able to stand on its own, but it is going to make WAY more sense if read in conjunction with "Scenes". (Not to mention, "Scenes" probably gets a huge boost from "Eight Times". Oh, and BOTH "Good Boys" and "Scenes" make more sense if you read both of them.) If you get to something that seems to come from nowhere, there's probably a scene in one of others that clears it all up.


	2. Scenes from a Bus

Sometimes Frank will hang around the space after Pencey's done and watch My Chem practice, because he knows it can be fun to have someone else there, even if it is just the kid from that other band. Gerard always says, "Hey," and claps a hand to Frank's back.

One day, though, Mikey sidles up next to him. His fingers are red from having played for several hours, eschewing a pick altogether for some reason Frank can't fathom. He asks, "You ever go home?"

"When I could be listening to you guys?" Frank shrugs. "Seems like it would be a pretty poor decision."

"You know you're on the list of people we let into the shows for free, right? I mean, assuming the show's not already free."

Frank grins at him.

Mikey laughs. "Yeah, okay, I just don't wanna find out you're living in a shoe because we tempt you away from things like work and school."

"I dropped out."

"Things like work."

"I do all right, Mikey Way. And I think you meant shoebox."

"Whatever."

Frank bumps his shoulder.

Mikey sways a little bit with it. "What do we sound like, on repeat listen?"

It's a serious question, even asked quickly, perhaps all the more so for the fast nature of it. Frank gives it some consideration. "Like hope."

"Iero—"

"No, I mean it. You guys sound like, like that song you listen to on repeat when you can't get out of bed, because it's the only thing that's keeping your eyes open, you know?"

Mikey's eyes are generally quiet little things behind the glasses that do so much to hide them, but right then Frank watches as they roil in reaction to his words. "Yeah, I know that song."

Frank says, "So I go home enough. I like being here. Listening."

Softly, Mikey says, "Too bad Pencey already had you."

"You guys already have a lead singer."

"Yeah."

"Yeah," Frank says, his fingers itching oddly. He rubs them against his thighs.

"I'm gonna go crash," Mikey says.

"Tomorrow, then."

"We'll be here."

*

Right after a gig is perhaps Mikey's favorite time in the world. The music is still blazing inside him; he doesn't even have to generate it any longer, just let it roll and curl and crest around in his chest, his arms, his mind. The energy carries him far enough and he doesn't have to think about the next hour, the next day, the next anything.

Frank somehow always finds him in these moments. Mikey can't tell if it's good instinct, or if Frank just likes the after-show part, too, if it does something different for him as part of the audience, but something equally as good.

He'll hook his chin on Gerard's shoulder, his hand on Mikey's, smiling at Mikey from where he's perched.

Mikey can never not smile back, doesn't even want to try.

It's one of these nights when Frank admits, "Pencey's breaking up," the sibilant sound in Pencey a little bit slurred.

Mikey's never seen Frank drunk before and he has to narrow his eyes, to focus, to even see it now. Gerard pulls him onto a bar stool. Mikey watches both of them, because Gerard's had his fair share as well this evening. Matt's gone home for the night, but Ray's on Frank's other side now, and he's sturdy, spotting Frank with an arm to his shoulder.

Gerard orders him another beer, which Mikey isn't sure is the best thing for this, but he's not going to say anything, not when Frank is lifting the bottle to his mouth like that's the only motion that makes sense.

"It's not even," Frank gestures with his free hand, "it's not even that it was so great, you know? Because I come to your shows, I know what inspired is, I hear that. It's just that it was this thing and it was working out and I— I'm just a little tired of having to start over again."

Mikey's only a year older than Frank, old enough to know how young they both are, but he gets that, he does. Those first moments in a band, when it might be everything, it might be perfection, those are maybe worth all the times when it falls apart, but Mikey doesn't know. He doesn't think he could start over again if My Chem fails.

Frank says, "I've already talked to some people about something new, and it's on its way, I think. Yeah. On its way. But it's just so many damned steps backward, you know?"

All three of them nod.

When Frank finishes his beer, Ray pulls him up off the stool and is about to stick him in a cab with a word to the driver when Mikey asks, "Somebody expecting you? At home?"

Frank shakes his head. Mikey looks at Gerard, and Gerard nods. Frank's coming home with them.

*

Frank puts together a new band, but Mikey can tell his heart's not quite in it. He talks about it with all the right words, but Mikey knows how the words are supposed to sound and Frank keeps fucking it up, whether he knows it or not.

Mikey goes to some of their practices, and they're good, because Frank is good, and he finds good people, but they're not new, they're not the next thing, they're not really even a _thing_ , not much.

Mikey's not shocked when Frank tells them that one's a bust, too. He doesn't even get drunk, just laughs a little bit and says it quietly, like the laughter—which isn't even real—might cover the words. Like the absence of the words will mean he doesn't have to get up the next morning and start refiguring what he wants from a band, whom he can find for it.

Mikey's name or not, this band is Gerard's band, but that doesn't mean Mikey's not gonna say, "Gee, I was thinking."

"Dangerous," Gerard grins his loopy, sweet grin and leans into Mikey and he's drunk, sure, because Gerard is drunk a lot, but he's not out of his mind with it.

"Only when it's you. I was thinking about our guitar sound."

"Ray's the man. I'm glad we knew him."

Ray is the man, and Mikey's glad they know him for reasons that extend far beyond his musical brilliance, but, "I know, but don't you think, I mean, sometimes don't you sort of wish the sound could be filled out a little?"

Gerard's gaze sharpens. "Rhythm guitarist?"

Mikey doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. He's gotten Gerard far enough to go the rest of the way.

"Fill in harmonies, complement Ray— Also, we'd have Frankie. He'd be ours."

"Ours," Mikey agrees.

"We have to talk to Ray and Matt."

"Yes."

Gerard looks around, as if he might find them, but they've long gone home, Mikey has waited. "It will keep till morning, Gee."

"This is going to be the best, the best thing ever. This band. This band with us and Ray and Matt and now Frank."

"He hasn't said yes."

"He will," Gerard says.

Mikey can't really argue with anything Gerard is saying. He doesn't want to.

*

Youngest member or not, when he joins the band, Frank is old enough to know he's getting himself into trouble. It's _good_ trouble, so far as he can tell, but trouble all the same, because all either Way brother has to do to get him to pay attention is to breathe, and generally Frank is harder to impress than that. He is actually, for the most part, not terribly interested in people. People are largely stupid.

Tragically for Frank, neither Mikey nor Gerard is. Even more tragically, Gerard has eyes that make Frank want to write lyrics, which isn't really his thing.

Mikey has hipbones and hands and cheekbones and a jaw line, but Frank pretends he doesn't, because there is trouble and then there is trouble, and the Ways are the latter, pure and simple.

So that first time when Gerard buys him a drink and laughs at a couple of his jokes and Frank knows the language, all right, he knows, he tries not to follow Gerard back to the fucking alley, tries not to respond to a kiss that's three-fourths music and one fourth lust. He fails.

It's predictable, really, but Frank wishes it weren't. He wakes up the next morning with knees that have cuts in them from the asphalt. Mikey notices and says, "Oh, hey," and pushes him into a chair before splashing the spots with alcohol. It stings, which is good, because Frank needs something to wake him up from all this.

Gerard stumbles into the room and looks at Frank's knees and there's just enough guilt in those eyes for Frank to know they're going to be doing this again. He thinks Mikey, who hasn't even looked back at his brother, knows too, but he just pats Frank's knees dry and says, "Maybe jeans with knees on them?"

Frank wants to say, "Please don't give me advice," because he knows he'll take it. Not that it's bad advice. He's just ready to start thinking with his own mind again.

Later Gerard tugs at Frank's lip piercing with his teeth and says, "Sorry about that, sorry," and Frank says, "I'm fine," even though he's not.

Gerard's apologizing for the wrong things. And he's not to blame for the right ones.

*

The problem, Frank knows, is that Gerard is so fucking genuine. So it's easy enough to pretend like he's an asshole when he's not around—which isn't all that often, what with being in a band with him, and all—but the minute he steps around the corner and smiles, even that quirk-of-the-lips one he has, Frank's waiting for later, when nobody's watching.

It's no good in the way that it's so utterly fucking brilliant from the very beginning, in the way that Frank rises up to the challenges Gerard sets but never finds himself meeting them, and it's Gerard, so maybe that's okay, because who the hell does really? Not even Mikey, and Frank knows that if Gerard could propel Mikey to the heights he tries pulling him toward, he would.

He'd pull Mikey before he'd pull Frank, and Frank shouldn't find that as driving as he does.

Frank thinks that the worst parts are the parts when it starts to be real: when Gerard finds him after he gets off the phone with his mom and lets him cry because New Jersey is seven states away; when he says, "Jesus fuck, did you swallow the guitar and sing it fucking out this evening?" with appreciation and maybe even a touch of awe; when he stays with Frank after they've both made a mess of the sheets and each other.

Those are the times when Frank has to remind himself that he is Frank Iero and Gerard Way is Gerard Way and he is going to get himself good and broken when he picks up the habit of saying "no" again.

It's not that Gerard asks for so much. It's not that at all. It's that he chooses what he asks for so very carefully, and never asks for half the things Frank would give without so much as a "please." He never asks for the things that make real real, and that's why the reality is dangerous. Reality that's based in, well, reality, is a scary enough thing. Reality that's based on two very different peoples very different needs and wants?

Frank needs to stop sleeping with Gerard Way before one of them says something they'll regret, something like, "'Morning, sweet," with Gerard looking all tossed and tired and young.

Gerard looks at him. "Sweet?"

Frank would take it back if he could, and not for all the reasons he's sure Gerard would want. "Whatever. You are, you badass, you."

Gerard smiles, his eyes curving upward, his teeth coming out from hiding. "Just don't tell anyone."

And that's the problem, isn't it? That Frank is already keeping Gerard's secrets, and Gerard evidently expects that he will. That Gerard has just let him get away with something not everyone—not anyone—would have, and _fuck_ if that isn't real.

Sooner or later Frank knows he's going to forget all his reasons for not doing this, and then there will be nothing but Gerard, because Frank is only part of the larger Gerard picture. He tells himself, he tells himself, he _tells_ himself he will say, "Gee, no, this may be the very best but I still can't," the next time, but the next time comes and "the very best" is so utterly fucking convincing and then there's the next time and the next, and soon enough, Frank can't recall what it was that made this anything other than real, why it _should_ be anything other than that.

There is just Gerard.

*

Frank's been arguing with Ray for a week about the musical arrangement on "Cemetery Drive" when Gerard steps in. Mikey tells him not to, tells him to leave it the hell alone. Ray and Frank will come to a compromise and everyone will be the better for it. Gerard ignores Mikey. Mikey sort of predicts that happening, but it's annoying all the same when it does. Gerard says, casually, "Ray's got a point, Frank."

Mikey watches the way Frank turns to Gerard, eyes dark and unreadable. And Mikey gets that Gerard didn't have to side with Frank—Frank doesn't need anyone fighting his battles for him—but not keeping out of it was a complete betrayal.

Frank blinks, smiles a little oddly, and folds. "Okay, that's fine."

Mikey's stomach is suddenly not as content to simply stay where it is.

Luckily, Ray has the sense to say, "What?"

"We'll go with your idea."

Ray rubs a hand over his face. "Mikey, can you take your fucktard brother somewhere that is not here?"

"I just—"

Mikey stops him. "Gee, come on. There's a reason you're the lead singer."

Gerard looks like he's going to say something else, but in the end he just follows Mikey. They go down to the coffee shop on the corner by their hotel. Mikey orders them both lattes and they chain-smoke silently for a bit before Gerard says, "I just don't like it when they fight."

Mikey gets it, he does, but, "You gotta let them. Especially— You know how Frank is with you."

Gerard rubs out a cigarette, lights another one. "What the fuck, Mikey?"

Mikey wonders if Gerard has already started drinking today, if his powers of observation are impaired. "Gerard, c'mon."

"Are you implying he's easy for me?"

"Currently? Yes. Although given a few more minutes it's going to be more than implication."

"Funny, coming from you."

Mikey blinks. "What?"

" _Don't_ , Mikey."

"He's not, Gee. He's _not_. And even if he was, it would be a friend thing, not a— He's yours, okay? Everyone knows that. Everyone."

Gerard just takes a sip of his coffee. Mikey goes and orders two more lattes. By the time they return, Frank and Ray have reached a compromise.

*

Gerard says, "I just don't like it when you guys fight," like that somehow excuses his actions. Gerard always knows he's done the wrong thing just moments too late.

Frank says, "People fight." He sounds a little flat, which is Frank's version of pissed, at least with Gerard.

"It's not that I think your idea doesn't have merit," he says. He feels dirty, sore, like maybe he fell and hurt himself without realizing.

Frank says, "That's not the point," and now he just sounds tired.

"I know," Gerard admits. Because now that Mikey has said, now Gerard can't close his eyes, can't shut off his ears, can't rewrite all the times that Frank has done things for him with doubt in his eyes.

Maybe he fell from really high up.

"I'm sorry," Gerard tells him. Frank snaps his gaze to him. Gerard can see the surprise there. He really needs a drink. "I'm gonna grab a beer. You want anything?"

Frank shakes his head slowly. Gerard bites the inside of his lip. "Okay."

Gerard gets his beer and comes back to sit beside Frank. He says, "You know, um. You know you should just tell me to fuck off, right? If that's what you want?"

Frank laughs a little and says something that Gerard thinks is, "If only," but he's not sure.

Gerard says, "Frank—"

"Forget about it, Gee. It's not a big deal. Ray and I found our compromise, your band is back on its feet, everything's fine."

"You're not."

"Fuck off," he says, sounding half-hearted, and like he's only echoing Gerard to echo him.

Gerard finishes the beer and contemplates another one. Frank's edges are digging into him, painful. He wants something to numb the attack. He asks, "Really?"

Frank shakes his head.

Gerard waits on the beer.

*

They have sex after the Jacksonville show, which is a couple of days later. It's a long stretch for them. Gerard doesn't want to ask, and Frank doesn't offer. After shows is just instinct, though, and they come together possibly without either of them actually meaning to.

Gerard looks down in the middle and sees the way Frank's hands and knees have to be burning in their back and forth against the rug, but Frank just grits out, "For fuck's sake, don't _stop_ ," and Gerard doesn't know what to do other than keep doing what he's doing.

Frank's lips are red when they finish. Gerard vaguely remembers biting them. He thinks Frank bit back, but it's hard to feel the sting under the anesthetic that the alcohol is lending him. He'd sort of like to, but not enough to stop, to feel everything else.

Frank licks those lips and says, "Good show," and everything's back to normal except for how it isn't.

Gerard nods. "Good crowd."

Frank laughs a little. "You aren't kidding. I was pretty sure we were gonna have kids on the stage."

Gerard isn't distracted. He wishes he was. "Yeah."

"You okay? You seem tired."

"Little tired, yes."

Frank gets a lascivious look on his face. "Wore you out, did I?"

Gerard laughs at that, and even if it's not quite boisterous, it's real.

"C'mon. Shower and bed."

"Bed," Gerard argues. He understands that Frank has his compulsions, but Gerard's not going to the kitchen and getting more Cuervo, is he? Well, maybe.

" _Shower_ and bed."

" _Bed._ "

Frank opens his mouth but then he just shakes his head. "Fine, we can shower in the morning."

Mikey's right. He should have noticed this on his own. He goes for the Cuervo. It'll help him sleep.

*

It's not as obvious with Mikey, Gerard realizes. But then, Frank's not in love with Mikey. Gerard is insecure, not crazy. Frank looks in a million directions and they all somehow end up leading back to Gerard. He isn't sure how that happened, but he's not going to question it. That would just be moronic.

It's not as obvious with Mikey, but it's there. It's there in the way Frank will share his drinks with Mikey even though Frank hates other people sipping off his drinks. Gerard wonders if Frank's ever told Mikey that, or if he can't bring himself to. He wonders if Mikey would stop if he knew. Probably. Mikey's always been the nicer brother.

It's there in the way Frank will come to Mikey on the stage if Mikey looks up like he's asking. Mikey doesn't very often, and Gerard has Frank already more often that not, but when he does and when Frank hasn't already been taken, he will go.

It's there in the way Frank lets Mikey have the bathroom first, even if he's itching for a shower. Gerard considers that he should feel jealous, that maybe he would if he stopped drinking long enough. It's a good reason not to stop drinking.

Mikey has never taken anything from him in his life, not even birthday or Christmas presents that he so clearly, clearly wanted to play with. Granted, Gerard always tried to share—Mikey never broke things and was always putting them back where they had come from, which is more than Gerard can say for himself—but still, Mikey never took. Gerard doesn't think he'll start with Frank. Even if he does want.

Gerard knows what surreptitious desire looks like on Mikey—so much of Mikey's has always been that way. He hides himself even from himself. For whatever reason, he's bad at hiding from Gerard. When Gerard drinks it gets a little easier for Mikey, and that's another good reason to continue, just to give Mikey some space, some breathing room, let his secrets be his own. Allow Gerard not to have to think about what it means that he has Frank and Mikey doesn't. That he hurts Frank where Mikey probably wouldn't.

Mikey has always been the nicer brother.

*

Frank's "no," comes back like a surprise, when, really, he should have been expecting it all along. Frank's "no" comes back the first time he bites at Gerard's neck, sharing a smile with him, saying, "Hey, maybe I could," and Gerard ignores him in that blithe way Gerard has. It's not being ignored, exactly. It's Gerard doing as Gerard will. The two are different, but if asked, Frank couldn't explain how.

Different or not, as Gerard slides in—and it's good, oh fuck, it's always so utterly blissful, so why should he want anything else, why?—Frank thinks, "This isn't what I wanted," and the thought is so surprising that he can't come, not even after Gerard sucks him for twenty minutes straight.

Gerard looks at him with wary, worried eyes and Frank caves: "I think I might be coming down with something."

He is, but not the sort of thing that will cause him to spend days in bed, not unless he's hiding. Frank wanks in the shower next morning thinking about Gerard in ways that maybe—probably—Gerard wouldn't like and he thinks, "No," and it's a warning to himself, but it doesn't come out of nowhere. They never do.

It's not even a dominance issue, Frank knows. Not for him and certainly not for Gerard, who's fully aware of his own power, if less than fully comfortable. And, okay, maybe it is a dominance issue in that sense, in the way that Gerard needs to know he won't, doesn't abuse it. Mostly it's just the way they work, the way neither of them needs anybody to carry them, but Gerard is like a fucking tide and Frank might be a damned aircraft carrier, but sooner or later everything bends to the ocean's power. It's a seductive power in more ways than one.

Frank questions himself, questions whether "no" really means anything, particularly as it hasn't been said aloud. Plenty of things have been, and perhaps, he tells himself, perhaps it is the sound, the echo of vibration that manifests the reality. He plays music. This is not an illogical train of thoughts.

And there are nights when Gerard looks at him—more nights than not, really, and that's the killer, that's the end, the only place Frank can sometimes see to, even if he knows there's an entire precipice below—in awe and wonder, the way the audience looks at him, but better, better because Gerard _creates_ awe and wonder, he creates belief, and in those moments, Frank knows Gerard is creating them in him.

"No" seems like such a little thing compared to that. Trivial. He almost never remembers it until morning, when the tide recedes.

*

Gerard listens to the shower run, imagines the stark shock of cold and doesn't think about being in Frank, about the feel of Frank's cock in his hand, in his mouth, finally, about Frank's defeated, "I'm just tired, sorry. Just tired."

He doesn't wonder if maybe the water isn't cold, if Frank is thinking about something else under the stream, something that will allow him to finish. He knows when Frank walks out that he hasn't. The mirror is clear, and Frank looks a little transparent, a little eerie in the dark of the hotel. Gerard pulls him to his chest, rubs at his back. Frank is shaking from the cold of the water, his skin icy. Gerard finds a shirt and some boxers for him and pulls him into bed. Frank goes willingly, curling up into Gerard.

He can't fall asleep. At first Gerard can tell by how utterly still he is. Frank is never still, particularly in his sleep. Then Gerard can tell by the restless tremors that take up residence in Frank's back, his legs. Gerard whispers, "Frank—"

"Might have a flu coming on," Frank says, somewhat resignedly. It's not anything like the flus he usually has, if so. Gerard doesn't argue. "Maybe we should get you to a doctor."

"Maybe," Frank agrees.

"You want a Benadryl. Something?"

"Please," Frank says.

Gerard gets up and gets the pill for him, along with a bottle of water. Frank offers Gerard a sip. Gerard refuses and Frank drinks the whole thing, setting it aside and practically falling back over onto the pillow.

The pill does its job, and Frank is asleep within half an hour. Gerard is not so lucky.

*

Frank's second "no" is more of a vague thrum of "oh shit" that settles in his toes and works its way up to his temples.

It's not that Gerard has ever resisted a good time, Gerard has always been intent on grabbing each as it went by, as though it might not come again. As a model to live one's life by, it's not as inspiring as one would expect it to be.

When Gerard starts to cling to good times, though, starts to induce them, that's when Frank starts thinking he's seen this before, and he has. He saw it in his best friend from middle school before he O.D.ed, so the signs are easy enough to read. Easy enough that he should have been reading them before, but unlike the other people in his life, Gerard blurs distinctions so radically, that even knowing, _knowing_ this can go nowhere good, Frank finds himself wondering if it's all in his head.

And it's not as if the stuff makes Gerard any less Gerard, if anything it makes him _more_ Gerard, which often ends with Frank feeling like his skin will burn off at the slightest touch after being exposed for a bit. Somehow, the sensation is good, something he needs more of it. He should get the hell away, is what he should do, and he's aware—more aware than Gerard at any given hour of the day—but for the first time in his life, having absolute knowledge of an intelligent decision, the _only_ decision, doesn't make him take steps toward it.

Mikey does things like pull Frank out of the way when Gerard is too high to be aware of where his arms are, but he doesn't say a word, not to Frank later, and not to Gerard, not that Frank can tell. And all right, that's fair, because Mikey's used to Gerard knowing what the hell to do and that's part of what's caught Frank, too. Gerard _should_ know.

And so for a while it's easy to pretend that he does, that the way his dirty talk has escalated to valid verbal abuse is just a ratcheting up of things between them, another part of them that makes Frank Gerard's and Gerard Frank's. Frank's willing to handle the words that crash into him, burn him deeper even than Gerard's mere presence just to hold on, even if sometimes he forgets what he's holding onto.

Gerard gets on stage and reminds him. Gerard puts his tongue to Frank's and even through the liquor, Frank can still taste him.

Until the morning Gerard stumbles back around three and Frank can't. There's something else in his mouth, something Frank has never learned, but he thinks it's an interloper, he thinks it's a someone. Frank wonders who in the world could possibly overcome the signature of Gerard.

Then he says, "Hey, where were you?" and Gerard grins at him, that easy, goofy grin, the one he really only shows Mikey anymore, and asks, "Does it matter?"

Frank knows the answer is "yes." He knows. "No."

*

Want to as he might, Mikey can't blame Frank. Gerard is at his most entrancing when caught up in his own big pictures, and the genesis of the next album is so damn big Mikey can barely see all the edges in his own mind. He has to shift the picture from one end to the other. And who wouldn't want to be part of that? There has never been a time when Mikey could resist being swept up in Gerard's flights of imagination or fancy or even reality, and he doesn't really expect that anyone else will either.

It's even less plausible that he could blame Gerard, because Gerard can see the whole big picture, no shifting involved and so is it really surprising that the details, the peripherals, get lost? Mikey doesn't think so. Mikey wishes he could be surprised by Frank's knees being bruised and torn and dirty one morning, by Gerard looking vaguely abashed, but Mikey's too damn smart for his own good most of the time. He sees these things coming. Or, at the very least, isn't derailed by their arrival.

And, at the moment, Gerard is shining so fucking hard in his grief over Elena that if Mikey weren't his brother, he imagines he'd probably be fighting Frank for that spot on the ground in front of him. The universe, it seems, is vaguely merciful.

Mikey doesn't do anything about it. He's never wanted to take anything from Gerard before, and now that he sort of does—but only in the sense that he wants Frank, not that Frank is Gerard's—he wouldn't even know how. He's glad he doesn't know how. He doesn't want to test his own willpower.

Frank hasn't a clue, Mikey knows. If Frank did he wouldn't do things like sprawl over Mikey in the van, like loop Mikey's bass playfully over his back, help him adjust it to where it falls just right. If Frank knew he wouldn't smile so hard every time Gerard looked his way across a room or called him 'Frankie' or squeezed at his shoulder.

Mikey doesn't want to take that smile away. If it's not for him, it's not for him and there's nothing that can be done about that. Frank has his very own smile for Mikey, a more secretive, quiet thing, and Mikey wouldn't trade it, not even for the wide, completely open grin Gerard always calls up.

Gerard doesn't know either. Mikey sort of wishes he did. He doesn't want Gerard to feel guilty, he wants Gerard to be more careful with Frank. He's so very, utterly careless, and Mikey finds himself unable to say, "Hey, pay attention," lest Gerard look away from his pretty, pretty pictures for one moment and see Mikey, standing before him. It's a vicious cycle, one that Mikey allows to spin almost without halt.

It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, except that sometimes Frank will smile that smile that's Mikey's while Mikey is setting him back on his feet from the latest of Gerard's excesses and then it is. The absolute worst thing.

Mikey always smiles back.

*

Frank would give Gerard the benefit of the doubt, would label the incident an accident, but how the fuck does someone accidentally blow the drummer of his band in the middle of his bus on the road between Poughkeepsie and Charleston and expect not to get caught? It's the middle of the night, and they are being quiet, even Matt, who laughs when Frank catches them, pushes Gerard further onto his cock.

So maybe it is an accident.

Frank wishes Gerard had the excuse of being stupid. Frank wishes that if it had to be anything, it could have been Matt blowing Gerard. Frank wishes a veritable ocean of things, an ocean nearly as wide and powerful as Gerard. It's gaining.

Matt ambles to the back of the bus when they're done, his shoulder purposely brushing Frank's and Frank would be mad but Matt's validly just an asshole, and you can't really blame people for being who they are. Gerard says, "Sorry," but he doesn't sound like it.

Frank tries walking straight past him, into the kitchen, where he was going in the first place. Gerard catches his elbow and Frank tries to yank free, but Gerard tightens his fingers hard enough that Frank feels bones shift. He says, "Gerard, come on," breathless and urgent in more ways than one.

Gerard pulls Frank to him, one quick, super-strong pull. Frank has forgotten how psychedelics can make people inhumanly strong, and Gerard was never exactly weak to begin with. Gerard licks at the corner of Frank's eye, which would be hot, except that he still has Matt on his tongue and it is all Frank can do not to vomit. Gerard whispers, "What? Did you think you were the only one?"

Frank says, "Let me go, Gerard."

"Thought those eyes of yours, those pretty-boy, look-at-me, look-at-me, _slut_ eyes were the only ones I ever looked at? That your ass was the only one I wanted to fuck? That you were more than that?"

"Let me go," and now Frank isn't even talking about his elbow.

"You're just another guitarist. The _second_ guitarist." Gerard's hand tightens.

"You're not gonna have a second guitarist if you keep squeezing." The pain is making Frank a little nauseated. He thinks it's the pain. He chooses to believe it's the pain.

Gerard smiles, then, the same smile he sometimes gives the audience, a calculated one. "We could find a replacement."

Softly, Frank says, "Let go, Gerard."

Gerard presses his lips to Frank's and despite the lingering taste of Matt, Frank can still breathe Gerard, still recognize him and even now, even now, it makes him lean in a little.

As soon as he does, Gerard tosses him away. Frank lands on his hands and knees, the injured elbow buckling immediately. Gerard says, "Hope you're up for tomorrow's show," and leaves him on the floor.

*

Frank knows he should have iced the elbow, but it was all he could do to get himself back to bed. He regrets it when there's swelling and bruising and all matter of inconvenient things in the morning. He wears long sleeves, which he never does—he got the tattoos to be seen—and takes more than a few ibuprofen and when Ray asks, "What is with you?" at soundcheck just says, "Sorry."

Ray doesn't look all that mollified, but he lets it go, because evidently Frank has earned himself the right to play like shit on occasion. Mikey, though, Mikey gets him alone in the quiet room and goes straight for his sleeve and it occurs to Frank that he knows. Knows knows. Saw-it-happen knows.

Frank doesn't ask, "Why didn't you say something?" He didn't say anything to Ray, either.

"Oh fuck," Mikey gasps, and yeah, okay, maybe it looks a little worse than Frank thought it did this morning. "Okay, just, uh. Sit down."

Frank sits down. It seems like reasonable enough advice. Mikey disappears and Frank is too fucking tired to even wonder where he's gone. He returns with ice and a towel, which he wraps carefully around the elbow. "Frank, I don't think you should—"

"Shut up, Mikey," Frank says it calmly, not a hint of venom anywhere.

"—play tonight."

Frank just looks at him.

"Maybe I can find a brace." Mikey leaves him alone, which is how Gerard finds him. Gerard sits on the couch with him and looks at his elbow and asks, "I did that, didn't I?"

Frank doesn't say anything.

"I don't remember that part."

Frank can't help himself, can't stop the, "What part do you remember?" that comes off his tongue.

"I think I blew Matt." Gerard sounds like he might be sick, like he might fall from wherever he's been perched and break on his own waves, waiting impatiently below.

Frank would catch him, but he knows he won't be allowed. "That good, huh?"

"I'm gonna talk to Mikey. Ray. About getting clean."

"Talk to me, Gerard."

Gerard avoids his gaze, looks down at Frank's elbow. "I don't remember that part."

"Then fucking—"

"I'm gonna talk to Ray."

Frank waits until he can hear something other than the slow, sick thud of his heart. "Yeah, okay."

"I'll be better," he promises. Frank doesn't doubt it.

*

It should feel better that in the end, Gerard can't talk to any of them, not _any_ of them, but it doesn't, because no matter whom he's not talking to, he's still not talking to Frank. Frank waits out the days when Gerard is nothing more than the withdrawal, nothing more than pain and want and maybe even need. He waits and listens to Mikey, who will at least sometimes says, "I miss my brother," and Frank knows there's a reason why he doesn't say "Gerard," knows that Mikey's feeling a bit confused about what happened, about who Gerard became. Mikey will let Frank wrap a blanket around his shoulders if he shivers, or hold his hand if he leaves it lying palm up and it's nothing big except for all those times when it's something huge.

Finally Gerard wakes up, really wakes up and asks for Mikey. Frank doesn't have the energy to be jealous, to even try and worm into the space between those two.

Mikey says, "He won't ask for you."

Frank already knows. He buys _A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius_ because it's one of Gerard's favorites and he can't find the dog-eared, marked up copy. He goes to Gerard, holds it in front of him like a peace offering. Gerard takes it, nods. "Time to think in new ways, huh?"

Frank really hadn't been considering it like that, but it's probably a pretty good idea. Gerard, when he's in control, is full up on those.

Gerard says, "I'm not really ready to say sorry to you, yet."

Frank says, "I should have waited until you said you wanted to see me."

"I wouldn't have."

"I know," Frank tells him. There is a certain method to his madness.

"It's not that I don't love you."

Gerard has never mentioned either doing so or not doing so before and it takes Frank a minute to remember how to talk. Because now that he's said it, even though it's maybe still all wrong, Frank knows, "That could be the problem."

"That, and the part where I have to tell you to go get a battery of medical tests." Gerard looks away as he says it.

Frank's gotten that far on his own. He _watched_ Gerard and Matt. "I'm clean, Gerard. You didn't infect me."

Gerard laughs at that. Frank smiles, trying his best not to allow the expression any twist of lemon-lime. "I have choices, too."

Gerard's expression calls the lie, but he doesn't say anything. Frank does laugh at that. There might even be amusement, dark, self-aware amusement, somewhere in the laugh. He runs his thumb along the outside line of Gerard's thumb and says, "I love you, too."

*

Frank would help Gerard keep the damn aloe plant alive if he would let Frank, but he won't. He says, "I don't think that's the point," and Frank says, "Admitting you can't do it all on your own? I don't know, seems like an important step."

The aloe plant dies, as does the fern that follows it, and the philodendron after that. Gerard's touch gets more tentative until Frank has to say, "Oh for— I find my own sunlight and water."

For a while this evidently works because if Gerard isn't exactly whole again there are at least goodly chunks that Frank recognizes floating around. Frank tells himself things are fine until the night Gerard finally says, "I'm sorry," in those words.

Frank says, "I know. I know you are."

Gerard says, "If you wanted to, you could," and with a smile he offers himself—the world—to Frank.

Frank knows he should say no, knows nothing comes for free, knows that work must accompany apologies, but not offerings, sacrifices of basic personhood. He kisses Gerard, kisses him and kisses him and in the end he can't say no, he can't, so he takes the gift and isn't surprised—maybe knew before he even asked the first time—when Gerard can't come undone beneath him, atop him. It is exquisite and painful and wrong and when they are done Gerard asks, "Was that— Did I—"

Frank says, "Sh, Sweet. Sh."

They don't do that again. Gerard does apologize again, but Frank just shakes his head, just says, "I think it's my turn," because it's not fair, what he's asking. Or maybe the question itself is fair, but not asking it of Gerard.

It occurs to him that Gerard probably deserves someone who takes him as he comes, but Frank can't give him up, not when he has him, and Gerard does things like draw fully-fleshed illustrations in the margins of the book Frank gave him, illustrations of the band, of forward movement, of the two of them.

Instead Frank gives himself over with pretended, desperate, hopeful abandon, sure, so sure that it will become real along the way. It has to. Gerard needs it to.

*

Mikey's never seen Gerard so damn afraid of a crowd, not ever, not even when he was a kid playing a boy who wouldn't grow up. Gerard was metaphorical even before the metaphors were his.

Frank has his hand tucked against the small of Gerard's back, but Gerard can't stay still for the touch, can't allow it to do its job and Frank is miserable with failed effort. Desperate, Mikey asks Bob, "Do you think you could make Gerard think you need a pep talk?"

"You think that will help?"

"It's worth a shot," Mikey tells him, and goes to pull Frank off of Gerard. Frank goes without much resistance, his shoulders curved up dangerously with defeat. Mikey rubs at the shoulders, digging his fingers in until Frank whimpers, "Ow, ouch, Mikey, stop," and then just pushes deeper.

Frank finally releases the muscles and then the digging is more relaxing than painful. Frank molds into Mikey's hands, docile and warm.

Mikey says, "Sometimes he needs something else. You know that, Frank."

"Most of the time," Frank mutters.

Mikey doesn't have anything to say to that. Gerard's not as good at leaning on Frank as Frank is good at catching him. It's a problem, but not one Mikey has the answers to. He's kind of tired of always needing to brainstorm. With himself.

"What's Bob saying?" Frank finally asks.

"Oh, he's pretending to be nervous."

"That was clever." Frank sounds impressed. Mikey does his best not to preen, it's really not the time.

"I think Bob is a little nervous, in a Bob way, so probably not the worst thing for him, either."

"I'm nervous," Frank admits.

"I'm pretty sure I'm gonna puke the minute we get out there."

"The kids are gonna love that."

"Hey, I hear tell they like seeing us raw."

Frank smirks. "I think that might be a little raw, even for them."

Mikey watches surreptitiously as Gerard loosens up slightly, clearly warming to the subject of whatever the hell it is he's telling Bob. Off to the side, Mikey can also tell Ray's doing his absolute best not to laugh. Yeah, Gerard can be a little bit much when he gets like this. Mikey loves it. He loves Gerard. Out of nowhere he tells Frank, "We're gonna blow this shit out of the water."

"Probably," Frank agrees.

"No, we are."

Frank takes a breath. "I believe you, Mikey Way."

Mikey does preen at that. He only has so much self-control.

*

Gerard is completely wired from the performance. Frank is almost afraid to touch him, like the rubber soles of his sneakers might not ground him enough. Gerard takes care of it for him, sweeping in, kissing him, and Frank does burn.

But then, that's Gerard.

"Have you always played like that?" Gerard asks. "Because Jesus H Fucking Christ on peanut butter, Frankie."

Frank laughs. Gerard swallows his laughter. Gerard is so there, so fucking _there_ in a way he hasn't been in a long time, maybe forever and Frank wants to let himself be swallowed, let himself just take this, just go with this, just be happy.

Except that this is only part of Gerard, and as utterly, starkly _real_ as it is, it is still only part. Gerard isn't big on letting Frank have all of him. And it's sweet, it's so damn sweet, the way he wants to protect Frank, only protection is a two way street. Frank's always going one direction with Gerard.

Gerard sinks to his knees and pulls Frank into his mouth and Frank goes because it's easy, because it's brilliant, because that's the right way down this street. But it's not the only way. And when Gerard is done, Frank will be able to see the yellow line again, and wish that the breaks allowed for him to cross it.

*

Frank's smile is off. There's nothing else that's off, so far as Gerard can tell. The coffee they're both drinking is good, and the people at the venue are treating them well, and mostly everything's fine, except that Frank's smile isn't quite right. Gerard tries kissing him a little to see if he can reset it, but when he pulls away Frank grins at him and the distortion is just that much clearer.

Gerard says, "Everything okay?" even knowing that unless Frank wants to be drawn out, it's not going to work. And Frank's usually pretty good about signaling that he wants that. He's not now, not that Gerard can tell. The smile is something else.

Frank says, "Yeah, why? Something on your mind?"

The answer is off, too. Gerard can't even figure out what's wrong with it, except that it's sort of like when Ray hits a wrong note—which Ray almost never does—and Gerard feels it stick in his throat. Frank sounds like Frank and looks like Frank and everything is Frank-ish, except that that "ish" is evidently covering a lot of territory today. "You seem a little...off."

"Gimme a break, Gee, I haven't even finished my coffee."

It's the middle of the afternoon. And okay, they haven't been awake that long, but still. "Wasn't criticizing. Just thought, I mean—"

Frank looks at him.

"You sure you're okay?"

Frank's reassurance smile isn't so far off as his grin, which doesn't make it precisely _on_. "Fine, I swear. You're just projecting nerves, or something."

That might be some of it. Gerard still hasn't gotten wholly used to performing sober, it's a harsher, more thrilling ride that can sometimes threaten to take him straight off, away from Frank and Mikey and Ray and Bob. And tonight's venue is bigger than most of the ones they've played so far. He doesn't think he's just imagining this, though. He knows Frank pretty well. For all the times when he doesn't know him, there are at least two when he really, really does. "Maybe." Gerard doesn't bother to wipe his tone free of doubt.

"They're going to leave gobsmacked," Frank says with a sage nod.

For a moment, Gerard is distracted, " _Gobsmacked_?"

Frank is unphased. "Excellent word."

And that's so, _so_ close to Frank that for a second Gerard wonders if he is imagining things. Then Frank turns to him slightly, smiling, and Gerard knows for sure he's not.

*

Frank leaves Gerard on a Friday morning, but it takes Gerard until Saturday evening to figure it out, and by that time, Frank is almost ready to cave, to go back.

It takes Gerard until he's pulling Frank to him after the show—and oh, he's warm and laughing and the electricity of his own music is still running live through him, and Frank wants, he _wants_ —and Frank says, "No, Gee, that's not on."

Gerard pulls back, the laughter still there, but with an underlying question. And Frank realizes that he didn't get the note.

Sometimes Frank wonders if there is a G-d, and if such a being hates him. It seems unlikely, given My Chem's success, but perhaps it is simply that G-d loves Gerard _more_ than he hates Frank. Frank tells him, "We broke up."

Gerard says, "I stopped taking shit. I would have remembered."

So Frank has to go into Gerard's bunk, find the note that was clearly, clearly on the pillow but has now managed to find its way between the sheets and the wall. The note says, "It's not that I don't love you."

Gerard says, "Frankie," leans in for a kiss and Frank makes himself hold his mouth away.

If it were just Frank, oh, if it were just Frank then he could give in and not care, not care how much it hurt sometimes, know that it was worth it for the times when Gerard's hands are at Frank's throat, his stomach, his cock, when Gerard will smile and mean it only for him, only. But it isn't just Frank. And Gerard will hold to things, will hold things up until well past when there is nothing to hold.

It is not just Frank, and Gerard is in no less pain than he is. Gerard says, "If you— Okay." It is a soft word, a nothing word. Its two syllables take Frank apart, the "oh" running off with his internal organs, the "kay" with his words, his breath, his thoughts. He repeats, "Okay," because just then, he doesn't know how to say anything else in the English language. In any language.

Gerard leaves him alone after that, which is necessary, because if he so much as crooks his little finger, Frank is going to forget every resolve he's ever had, let alone, "No more Gerard." He leaves him alone, and more than anything, Frank knows that is Gerard's way of agreeing.

On Tuesday, Mikey says, "You've got to eat."

Frank puts his hands to his ears and presses, but Mikey stays, not put off by Frank's spastic grief. Or at least, not showing that he is. He waits for Frank to give up on shutting the world out and says, "You need to eat."

"I'm really, really not hungry."

"I really, really don't care."

"Jesus, Mikey, no, okay? No."

Mikey goes away and Frank thinks he's safe, except that Mikey brings back food and sits until he eats it and Frank thinks, "I have to mean 'no' some of the time," but for all that, his capitulation in this instance isn't the struggle of wills that it always was with Gerard. He eats a little and lays down on the couch and Mikey puts Frank's head on his lap and Frank thinks, "No," but it sounds different than it always did before.

*

Neither Frank nor Gerard says a word when Frank finally gives up. Mikey figures it out when Gerard screams himself raw in a concert, literally. Mikey catches him gurgling water, spitting up blood, after the show. He says, "Gee, I know you and Frank have that thing about leaving everything out there, but—"

Gerard retches a little at the word "Frank."

It takes Mikey a moment to catch up. Then he says, "Oh, Gee."

Mikey has the bus driver stop so that he can pick up some canned soups and cough drops. He charges Ray with helping him make sure that Gerard eats. Ray says, "See to Frank, Mikey. He'll let you."

Mikey climbs into Frank's bunk without invitation and says, "You been giving Ray trouble?"

Without turning from his position facing the wall, Frank says, "I suppose it would be too much to ask to be left alone?"

"It would," Mikey tells him. Frank doesn't say another word. Mikey asks, "You been eating? I haven't seen you emerge in a while. I was kinda worried I'd come in here and discover wild dogs eating at your rotted remains."

There's a second of silence and then Frank laughs. It's as ripped from him as the blood Gerard was spitting up. "I would say you would have noticed, but this is you guys."

"So see, it was a valid fear."

Another laugh follows, but this one breaks at the end of the first huff, breaks and the shards cut into Frank, his shoulders cracking wide open into one sob after another. The sobs are wholly silent, Mikey can barely hear him breathing, but the bunk is moving with his utter, sweeping loss.

Mikey presses himself to Frank's back, tries to take as much of it as he can into himself. It is only then that he notices how Frank's hands are pressed to his face, keeping the sound in. Mikey brings his hands up over Frank's, pulls them gently back. There's a deep, bruising bite mark in the palm of one hand.

Frank is still trying to halt the sound, catch it in his throat where it twists and winds and he makes keening, awful noises when they actually make it past his lips. Mikey says, "Breathe, Frank, just breathe."

His breath is nothing but misery, low pitched wails that tighten around Mikey's stomach. Mikey presses in tighter, tucks himself all around, says, "We're still here. We're still here." _Please don't think you've lost everything_.

Mikey is still pleading to whomever hears his thoughts when Frank finally wears himself out, finally falls into sleep, a short, sharp fall that leaves him muttering and restless. Mikey says, "Shh, Frank, just let yourself sleep. Shh."

Frank quiets.

*

People assume that because Ray is quiet that he doesn't care, that he's just along for the ride and the chance to play his guitar. Gerard knows better, but he tends not to say anything because Ray sort of likes that people don't get him.

Still, Gerard isn't precisely expecting Ray to be the one who makes him coffee every morning for two weeks after it's clear that Frank has left him. Maybe that's just because he never expects to be taken care of, never thinks he wants it until he does want it and then it's sort of too late to ask. But Ray just buys the deep roasted Ivory Coast beans that Gerard prefers and sets up a routine. He sits with Gerard and his coffee without earphones or PSP or anything and Gerard thinks maybe he should talk but as of yet, he doesn't have anything to say.

Ray finally says, "You should maybe write about this, man, if you're not going to talk about it."

Gerard nods. "My hand keeps getting stuck."

Ray says, "Next town, you and me."

Gerard wonders what will happen if someone else needs him. Then he decides he doesn't care. "Yeah, okay."

Ray takes him out to a Vietnamese restaurant and then to a chocolatier where they can get tortes sans milk or eggs. Afterward Ray walks him out to the water—Gerard thinks they're in San Francisco, but he hasn't seen the Golden Gate, so maybe not—says, "Take your shoes off."

The water is fucking cold and Gerard thinks they're probably going to lose a few toes each. At this point, it would almost be a relief, something to focus on. Ray takes out his guitar—fucker's been carrying it on his back, which has called more attention to them than not—and says, "Told you I needed it."

Ray rarely ever does things without purpose. He strums the thing and asks, "Where am I going?"

Gerard knows how to lead, he does. "Um. Minor chord. B? No, D. D."

Ray gives him what he wants.

"Then to G. Hm. Maybe make that a major?"

Ray snorts, but does it anyway. The song is terrible, but they all are at first. Gerard's mind works just fine, but cohesiveness is something he has to craft. Ray has an audial memory. He'll record the song until Gerard can write it down, see it on paper, know how to fix it.

In the middle of the song—it's clearly the middle, even if Gerard hasn't figured out the end—he says, "I let go of him."

"Yeah," Ray says, over a strum. "That was ballsy. I didn't think you had it in you."

Gerard snaps his gaze up to Ray who shrugs. "Sometimes shit validly doesn't work, Gee. You like to think that's your fault, but it's not, not always."

"I did some stuff—"

"Okay, I am actually in the band. I know you guys forget that, like, at rest stops and all, but I was around, yeah?"

Gerard nods.

"He didn't leave because of that stuff, and you didn't 'give up on him' or whatever because of it. You guys just had bad energy."

Gerard thinks back on the song, what he's done up until now, where to go. He listens to it in his head and knows that he won't be fixing it, knows that, "Sometimes shit just validly doesn't work."

Ray smiles. "Wanna start over again?"

Oh, how Gerard wishes. But he knows to take the chances he's given. "A flat."

"Probably better."

*

The thing about Pete Wentz is that, for the first time in what actually, truly feels like forever, he makes Mikey forget about the things he can't have. The thing he can't have. The person he can't have.

So, maybe not forget. But he makes Mikey look away, and that's new, that's different, that's utterly fantastic. And when Pete says, "Mikey Way," the emphasis is always on the "Mikey," not the "Way."

Which is why it's easy, so infinitely, bizarrely easy, to let Pete kiss him, let Pete wrap wide fingers over the back of his neck, caress at the skin there. It tickles a bit but not in a painful way, and not enough to distract from the heat of Pete's mouth, the contradictory taste of spearmint amidst the burn of his tongue. Pete knows how to kiss.

Mikey has missed that part of things. Because he can kiss any guy in any bathroom, but it's not a kiss, it's contractual foreplay. When Pete kisses him, Mikey feels it to his fucking knees, his toes, and that, that's the part that he can't find just anywhere. And it's not that Mikey doesn't see the danger in Pete, the part of Pete that can't still, can't accept that he's gotten what he wants, all he has to do is keep it, but Mikey lives amongst dangerous guys. He navigates danger as most people do rush hour traffic, and is not half so annoyed by it.

Even at his worst, Pete responds to Mikey, notices him there, notices his efforts to help and even if there was nothing else, even if there wasn't the way Pete sounds when he plays and the way he listens to Mikey and the kissing and the _Mikey_ Way, even if not for all of that, there would be the fact that Pete lets Mikey hold him, hold him together, hold on.

Pete says, "You're too much, you're too fucking much," but Mikey knows that for the moment he's just barely enough. For both of them. That's okay, though, because for now he is enough and that is such an aphrodisiac Mikey can get hard just seeing Pete across a fucking room.

Mikey believes in unicorns, so he's pretty aware that he's not the best guy to go to for a dose of realism, but the way Pete looks at him feels like magic and even if unicorns don't exist, there are times when a guy needs the illusion. He's pretty sure he looks at Pete the same way. For Pete's sake, he hopes he does.

*

Gerard laughs at them a lot. Mikey would mind except that it's happy laughter, it's relieved laughter, it's laughter that Gerard has clearly been keeping for when Mikey found somebody who made him smile. Pete will come by the bus after shows and Gerard will say, "We don't speak bass on this bus."

Pete will get on his tiptoes to peer over Gerard's shoulder. "That one does. That one sings it."

Sometimes Gerard hugs Pete in sheer exuberance over the fact that he's good for Mikey, really _good_ for him, and Pete just goes with it, just clings back. For all that Pete sees the take in himself, Pete has an excess of give. Pete's give comes out in a million ways, large and small. Mikey's favorite, even though he thinks it is the most unconscious—or perhaps, because of that—is the way Pete plays, the way he pours himself out, nothing but fingers and strings when he's on that stage.

But there are other things; the shirts Pete makes, the cups of coffee he brings, the way he shares Hemmy. The way he is in bed. And all right, maybe that's even better than Pete on stage, although the two run a close and vicious race. In bed, Pete will take his time with Mikey, will lave and bite and suck his way down Mikey's chest until the whole of it is heated, sensitive, waiting for Pete's hands. Pete's touch is never exactly gentle, but it's not anything else, either. Pete's touch is his touch and Mikey hasn't yet come up with another way to describe it.

He touches even as he continues to tease with his mouth, his lips nipping at Mikey's cock, his tongue swirling, pressing to Mikey's balls. He takes a long time, he takes forever, he waits for Mikey to whimper, "Pete, please, Pete," and Mikey knows Pete gets off on the sound of his voice coming out of Mikey's throat, thinks that makes him selfish. Mikey thinks it makes him human. Pete is so fucking unbearably human.

Pete will make him wait and wait, but in the end Pete always gives himself over, all of himself, letting Mikey in, letting Mikey surround him with his arms, letting Mikey whisper, "Pete, Pete," in his ear, just so he knows they are both there, both so very much there.

And when he has given all he has to give, Pete will lie there, and let Mikey give back, allow himself to take from Mikey and yes, it _is_ better than the stage for that part, the part where it was Mikey that Pete was giving to, Mikey whom he will take from.

Mikey gives.

*

Pete doesn't sleep much. Mikey will travel on Fall Out Boy's bus, waking at all hours of the night to find Pete prowling, distracting himself from his own wakefulness. Distracting himself from sleep. Mikey pulls him onto the couch and rubs at his shoulders, digs his thumbs into the palms of Pete's hands—tensed from playing—waits for Pete to fall asleep at his touch. When he wakes up, Pete is never there.

Pete will make him breakfast—and by make, Mikey means pour the cereal and the soy milk into the same bowl and say, "Sorry, I got restless."

Mikey says, "It's okay," and means it, but Pete never truly accepts his forgiveness.

Pete won't come on My Chem's bus, not overnight. Mikey says, "It's not as if we're all bastions of mental health," but Pete shrugs, "My guys are used to the disturbances."

Mikey doesn't push. Pete so very rarely gets to feel comfortable. Mikey ignores how much he would like to be Pete's place of comfort. Pete doesn't need him to need things of Pete, or maybe Pete does, but not those things. Pete needs Mikey to need the things Pete can give, so Mikey can restrict himself to those things, he can.

He is good at cutting himself off, falsely imposing limits. He can't even summon the energy to be disappointed that he has to do it with Pete. He's not sure there's anyone for whom he wouldn't have to.

Pete tries, he tries so damn hard Mikey can see the effort pouring off of him, and it's utterly, wholly driving.

Mikey rides along.

*

Frank knows he should be happy for Mikey, and it's not exactly that he's not, except that he's sort of not. Pete's a nice guy and he makes Mikey smile, and Frank loves seeing his smile but it also makes his stomach burn. Until lately, he's never seen Mikey smile like that for anyone other than Ray, Gerard, Bob and himself. Matt could never manage.

It's fucked up to be jealous over a smile and Frank knows he's feeling a little bit at ends, still bruised from Gerard, so he concentrates on the ways in which he is happy for Mikey and ignores the other parts. Mikey's waited a long time to have someone like Pete, someone real for him and Frank's not gonna fuck that up with whatever shit is going on in his head. Mikey deserves better from him.

Annoyingly, the burn of jealousy only gets more intense as the summer progresses and Frank's just about to the point of considering whether he's developed an ulcer without knowing it when they're behind the stage, waiting to go on one night and Mikey laughs at something Ray has said, his lips accidentally brushing Frank's ear as he does. It is a small space they are all standing in. Frank doubts Mikey even notices. Frank is so hard he isn't sure he has any blood left for the parts of his body needed to play his guitar.

His thoughts—in no particular order—are, "No," and " _Fuck_."

Pete comes around after their set and Frank is as nice as he knows how to be, because if he is anything else, it will involve ripping Pete Wentz's pretty Mikey Way-stealing face right off his bones. My Chem has already lost a drummer. Frank doesn't want to be the cause of them having to find another guitarist. It's about the only thing that stops him.

Like Gerard, this band is always saving his life. And the faces of others.

When they head out, Frank calls, "Have a good time," and waves. Mikey _grins_ at him over his shoulder and yells, "Oh, don't worry, we will."

Frank makes for the nearest bathroom.

*

Pete starts to get desperate about a week before the end of the tour. Mikey feels the shift, senses it in the way Pete's modes of initiating, carrying through sex become more frantic and more intense. Pete will kiss Mikey for an hour, an hour, without once touching him and then skip straight to penetration, bending himself over the nearest surface, saying, "Hold me, hold me," and meaning—evidently—"hold me _down_."

Mikey does. He knows what it's like to feel that the only thing keeping him with the people he cares about is gravity. Mikey can be a law of physics unto Pete, if that's what Pete needs. What he can't do is extend Warped.

The last three nights Pete doesn't sleep at all, won't take anything because he doesn't do that anymore, and Mikey gets that, sort of, but Patrick and Andy and Joe even look worried, and they're used to the worst of it. Mikey asks Patrick if he should go, leave the bus to them, but Patrick says, "You going is the problem," and doesn't mean it to hurt as much as it does. It's no more than a second later that he says, "Oh, hey, no, I didn't mean—"

Mikey shakes his head. He knows. He doesn't really want to go. When he has to he kisses Pete, kisses him and wraps his hands around Pete's biceps and says, "You have to remember where I am."

Pete nods. "End of the phone line."

"Other side of a text."

"On a bus."

"Waiting to talk with you."

Pete presses his lips together tightly. Mikey says, "I'll miss you."

Pete looks at him.

"So much."

Pete opens his mouth, but his eyes are wet and in the end all he can do is shake his head.

Mikey kisses him again. "So much, Pete."

*

Mikey texts Pete almost constantly, makes him tell Mikey all the things he would if Mikey were standing there, like the most recent places Joe has found to hide Patrick's hats and what Pete sees outside his window and what he had for breakfast that morning. If Mikey wants to know about how the next album is coming—and he generally does—he calls. That's the sort of thing for which he needs to hear Pete's voice to really understand what he's being told.

Pete calls a fair amount, but he always sounds as if he's pretty sure he's going to be interrupting something. Mikey stays on with him for as long as he possibly can, long enough that sometimes Gerard has to take the phone and say, "Pete, we need our bassist. We only have one of him." Mikey's not sure what Pete says back to Gerard, only that sometimes it makes Gerard smile.

On occasion Patrick calls and says, "I'm handing the phone to him, just talk," and Mikey does until his throat is raw and he's long past the marker of having nothing to tell Pete. When he can barely make noise anymore he will allow himself to ask, "Pete?"

Most of the time Pete will say, "I'm here." Mikey already knows Pete's there. The more important question is whether Pete knows where "here" is, where that is in relation to anything else.

Pete has a couple of days where he can come see Mikey and Mikey all but begs that he actually use them. Pete gives in right before the point where Mikey's on his knees asking nobody who can see the gesture, and Mikey thinks that's something, but only time will tell.

The week before Pete comes Mikey is anxious and his playing is jittery, off, he knows it. Gerard doesn't say a word. Frank cuts off a little of his coffee supply and Bob makes him sit and have his shoulders rubbed. Ray puts new playlists on Mikey's iPod and says, "Listen," in a tone that brooks no argument. It helps, but the only thing that's going to fix the problem is Pete being there, being all right being there. For that, Mikey just has to wait.

*

Pete doesn't stop touching Mikey from the moment he sees him. Maybe it's clingy, but Mikey needs it every bit as much as Pete does. The touches aren't ostentatious, except maybe the hand-holding, but they only do that on the bus.

The reunion sex is frantic and messy at first, and later it's just frantic, Mikey trying to get as far into Pete as he possibly can, Pete striving to let him even deeper in.

Mikey makes Pete spend some time with Gerard, because Mikey actually does believe that everyone should spend a little bit of time with Gerard, but Pete more than most. Gerard's confidence in Pete causes his shoulders to loosen, makes him stand taller. Mikey makes Pete spend time with Bob because Bob is a fixer, and sometimes just being near him makes things better. Mikey makes Pete spend time with Frank because Frank makes everyone laugh, and Pete is no exception. Mikey makes Pete spend time with Ray because Ray knows how to bring the calm, and Pete needs some of that. Pete needs a lot of it.

But mostly they hide away, talking in half sentences that they sometimes get and sometimes don't, but even in the latter instance there's no real need to ask. Pete can't sleep if Mikey's not in him, not lying atop him, not somehow taking him over, subsuming him. It concerns Mikey, but the absolute lack of sleep concerns him more, so he takes the quick fix, at least for the moment. Mikey always figures there's more time later, until there isn't, but even in those instances, the people Mikey has stood by have always been able to come through.

The days slip by in a haze of confidences, new and old chords, fingers and toes and lips and teeth. Pete says, "I don't want to leave you."

Mikey kisses him, says, "For a moment, just a moment, stop thinking that everything is a metaphor."

Pete looks helpless.

*

It's less than a month after Warped when Mikey starts looking like someone has taken the threads of him in his fingers and is pulling slowly, fraying him from the edges inward.

Frank considers whether any of Fall Out Boys' roadies could be bribed to beat the ever loving crap out of Pete Wentz. He doesn't think so. And Mikey probably wouldn't appreciate it. Frank doesn't even know if it would make him feel better. He's not generally a violent human being.

Gerard is worried and it's instinct on Frank's part, pure and guttural, to sit by him, to say, "You okay?" Only after Frank asks does he realize it's the first time he's touched Gerard outside of an interview or a show in nearly four months. Gerard looks at their legs, aligned side by side. He nods.

"Gee," Frank says.

"Think maybe I should talk with Pete?"

"I don't know." Frank really doesn't. His best idea so far has been the roadie one, and that's really not a good idea. At all.

"He looks so...diminished."

Frank knows. He caught Mikey slouching so far the other day he thought, for a moment, that he was sick. Then Mikey looked over and gave him a smile with too much tooth in it. It wasn't a mean smile, just a constructed one, which hit Frank pretty much the same way. "But he can take care of himself. He can."

"I know. I hate it."

Frank smiles, he can't help it. Gerard is just so damned Gerard some times. "Let's give it a couple weeks."

Gerard kicks at the floor. "I _hate_ waiting."

Frank's smile deepens. So damn Gerard.

*

Pete calls him less after the visit.

They don't talk less, but it's almost always Mikey calling or Patrick intervening. Patrick starts to sound desperate. One time Mikey says, "Patrick. Tell me what you see."

"Mikey—"

"I don't mean betray him. I mean, just. Give me some insight."

"I think." Patrick stops. "He just misses you. All the time. _All_ the time. And he gets to thinking it must be like that for you, and that you don't deserve that, that you should be able to have something more immediate, or at least more worth waiting for—"

"Patrick—"

"I'm saying what I see him thinking, not what I'm thinking."

Mikey runs a hand over his face. "Okay. Okay, so I just have to make him see that I don't mind waiting, that it makes it better when we see each other."

"Yeah. Just." Patrick sounds worried.

"Hey, I could use a little confidence here."

"Sorry. It's not that."

Mikey is silent for a second. Then he asks, "He's not fighting very hard, is he?"

"Please don't think it's about you. If there was anyone he'd fight for, it would be you."

Except, evidently not. Mikey takes a breath. This is okay. He's fought for two sides of an equation often enough. He can do it again. He can. And Pete is so very worth it.

He says, "Tell him I called."

"You don't want to—"

"Just. Tell him. I'd like to hear from him, okay?"

Patrick hesitates, then asks, "Mikey?"

"Yeah."

"You make him happy."

Mikey isn't sure that's true, but it's a comforting thought, all the same.

*

The thing is, though, that if Mikey just texts Pete and says, "Please, please call me," Pete will.

He will and he'll let Mikey stress over the way Gerard is changing, evolving, the way Mikey has become something less to him, maybe—no, not something less, but something different, different in a way Mikey hasn't yet come to accept. Frank, who is also transforming subtly into someone else in the wake of Gerard's change, will still grant Mikey the little things, the way he used to let Mikey clean his knees or tell him when he absolutely had to sleep, but Gerard just goes off by himself, with Ray, it doesn't matter so long as he's not leaning on Mikey.

And Mikey knows, he gets that Gerard is trying his best to be a good big brother, but Gerard has been a crap big brother Mikey's whole life—at least in that regard—and it's been the only way Mikey has ever wanted him to be. He doesn't need an independent Gerard. He needs his brother.

Pete says, "You carry too much, Mikey."

Right now, Mikey isn't carrying enough, and he can feel the lack every second, like he might get swept away if the north winds pick up. He's trying to carry Pete, and it's not that he thinks Pete wouldn't let him if he knew how, but Pete has learned to run at some point, and nobody has thought to teach him how to slow down. Patrick can get him to still, but that's about something else, that's about music and safety, and Mikey might be one of those things, but he's aware that he's not the other.

Mikey asks, "What's going on with you?" and Pete says, "Andy's gotten me addicted to these fried tofu _things_ , I seriously don't even know what they are, and they're probably shit for me, because seriously, whoever thinks being a vegan is good for you is totally on crack."

"Fried tofu, huh?" Mikey will have to find out what they actually are from Andy.

"Evil," Pete says.

"You could use a little of that in your life."

"Nope, all filled up here."

Mikey sighs. He misses Pete. "How's Hemmy?"

"Bus sick. Sometimes we have to stop on the side of the highway before he starts peeing on things just to make a point."

"Yeah, we have to do that with Frank, too."

Pete laughs, then chokes on whatever he was taking a sip of when he started laughing.

"Sorry," Mikey says. He's not really. Pete doesn't laugh enough, particularly not when he doesn't know what's coming at him.

"Evil," Pete repeats.

"Told you you needed a little bit of that in your life." It's something, Mikey tells himself, that Pete doesn't repudiate the statement again.

*

The ironic part of one of the worst moments of Mikey's life to that point is that he thinks he could have handled it if Pete had just _cheated_. Had just slept with someone, random and unimportant and not at all Mikey to him. Mikey knows Pete loves him. That isn't their problem.

But no, no. Pete can't be simple in his oblivious, well-intentioned cruelty. Mikey doesn't know if he would be Pete if he were. Probably not.

It's at a Fuse function, one of those things that they are too close to New York at the time to beg off of. The guy approaches him casually, says something about his music. It's loud and Mikey's bored and he smiles politely, still trying to find Frank or Bob or anyone, really, that he knows. Then the guy, who is tall and built and sort of just the way Mikey likes his guys, says, "Pete sent me."

And despite the fact that it isn't said loudly, for Mikey, the room might as well be dead silent.

"I'm sorry?" Mikey asks. Maybe he heard wrong. Maybe he's starting to have some sort of bizarre, self-destructive cycle of delusions. It wouldn't be the most surprising thing ever to have happened to him.

The guy nods. "He said you deserved a little fun. And I was to show it to you."

There are a million reasons to be mad at Pete, a million and one, even, if Mikey counts the complete and utter lack of discretion. Mikey wishes, desperately, violently wishes, that anger was his response. Mikey tells the guy, "He was mistaken," and makes certain to disappear into the crowd to find Ray and say, "Please, please take me—"

Ray says, "Okay, Mikey, okay, just breathe."

Ray gets him out of there, away from the people and then Mikey can breathe but the air is sharp, filled with sand or broken glass or glitter. Mikey doesn't know. Something small and cutting. Ray rubs his back. "Mikey?"

Mikey shakes his head. "Nothing, nothing."

Ray gets them a car to take them back to the hotel. He calls the others on the way, lets them know they've gone. He doesn't say a word about the fact that Mikey is clearly losing his mind. When they reach the hotel Mikey tries going to his room, but Ray just redirects him with the hand still on Mikey's back. He puts Mikey in his own bed. Mikey asks, "You weren't having a good time, were you?"

Ray says, "You're more important."

Mikey laughs and feels the tears start. "Evidently. I'm very, very fucking important. Must be kept happy, don't you know?"

Ray asks, "What did he do, Mikey?"

"Who?"

Ray doesn't say anything. Ray's always paying more attention than anybody thinks. It can be bothersome at times. Mikey closes his eyes. "He just— Tried to keep me happy."

Ray inhales like he's going to say something else. In the end it is just, "Get some sleep, Mikey."

Mikey tries. He really does.

*

In the end, Mikey never says anything about Pete's offering because before he can figure out what to say Patrick calls and asks, "Is there any way for you to get to us? Any at all?"

He sounds like he's forcing himself to stay calm. Mikey says, "Let me talk to the guys."

He does and he's on a plane within three days. He has twelve hours to be with Pete, then he's booked on a flight that will arrive within hours of a show. When he arrives, Pete looks at him with bruised eyes and says, "Patrick shouldn't have called."

"Sometimes Patrick's a little bit smarter about you than you are," Mikey says gently. Most of the time Patrick is a lot smarter.

Pete laughs, the sound dry. "Isn't everyone?"

Mikey kisses Pete into silence, undresses him down to where he can't hide, pushes into places Pete keeps reserved for him. It takes Pete forever to climax, and it is all Mikey can do not to become frantic. He stays in Pete, though, ignores the way the sensation crowds in on him, too much, too much. When his efforts finally triumph over the twisted state of Pete's psyche, Mikey stays, rolls into Pete, still there, still inside, and says, "Sleep."

Pete says, "You're not here for very long."

Mikey says, "I know, I should have made you before now."

Pete's sleep is quiet and still unto death and it is, ironically, the only reassuring part of Mikey's visit. Pete wakes up as Mikey pulls off, making himself do the work of getting dressed. Pete says, "Don't go," then, "I didn't mean that." He did, he just knows the rules.

"I don't want to," Mikey tells him.

Pete says, "Maybe, maybe it's 'don't come back'."

Mikey stops midway through putting on his shirt. He makes himself continue, pull it over his head. "What?"

"Don't, Mikey. Stop running whenever I slow down long enough to be caught. Stop it. It's no good for you. And I— It would be better if I could just get over you. I would, you know? Even you. Even you I'd get over."

Mikey sits down. He's a little dizzy. "It's plenty good for me. I catch you, don't I?"

"Sooner or later—"

"Stop it," Mikey says.

"Sooner or later you'll just be running yourself into the ground. It's already started. You have a three hour flight to get to a show that starts in, oh, seven hours or so."

"Adrenaline high. I just saw my boyfriend."

"Mm, and it was rousing."

"You break up with me now and my performance is going to suck."

"In that case, I suppose I could wait until tomorrow, but I hate to do it over the phone."

The words impact straight into Mikey's stomach. "Pete."

"I'm sorry, Mikey."

"No. No no no no. You—" Mikey shakes his head. "You just need more sleep. Then you'll see we're fine."

Pete looks at him like he's crazy. "Maybe _you_ need more sleep."

Maybe, but Mikey's not crazy, he's not. He's right about this. "Pete, you just needed to see me is all—"

"I always need to see you, Mikey. Always. And it fucking _burns_ , all right? And it's just going to until it's over, and I'd rather be the one to end it for me than see you walk away for you, or worse, see me fucking burn you right along with me."

"You won't."

"I will."

"You _won't_."

"I've lived with me for a hell of a lot longer than you've known me."

"It's skewed your perceptions."

"Possibly, but perception is everything, don't you know?"

Mikey does, is the worst part. Pete says, "You have to go."

"Pete—"

"Literally, you're going to miss your flight."

Mikey runs a hand over his face. He leans in to kiss Pete. Pete turns his face. Mikey says, "Okay. Okay. I'll call you when I get in."

Pete says, "Goodbye."

*

On the third day Patrick picks up Pete's phone and says, "Mikey, you've got to stop."

Which is how Mikey knows it's really over. He laughs a little, but it's more the broken pieces inside of him moving, jangling on up through his throat. He says, "Tell him—" There's nothing to say.

Patrick says, "Hey, breathe."

Mikey hangs up. Gerard finds him ten minutes later. He wraps himself around Mikey and says, "Patrick called. Why didn't you say?"

"It wasn't predictable?" Mikey asks. He thinks, now that he looks back, it sort of was. An outsider's perspective might have told him that.

"Mikey," Gerard murmurs, and he's warm and safe around Mikey. It's different, this Gerard. Not bad, Gerard has never been bad even when he was horrible, but still, this is different, and right now Mikey would do anything for the familiar. He clings all the same. He clings and Gerard sniffles against his shoulder, crying for him, and okay, that's something Mikey knows. He holds on tighter.

He says, "Love you, Gee." Gerard kisses his shoulder.

Ray stands behind him before they go on stage that evening, his arm slung loose over Mikey's hips. He's solid and yet careful with Mikey, and that's familiar, too. Mikey says, "I'm fine."

Ray says, "Okay, Mikey."

Bob pulls Mikey into his bunk after the show. Bob doesn't like to share his bunk, not with anybody who's not Spencer, not really, so Mikey says, "You don't have to—"

Bob says, "Hush, Mikey Way." Mikey cries in his sleep, or maybe it starts in his sleep and carries into wakefulness, but he cries and Bob just lets him hide in his chest, doesn't say a word.

Frank rents a car and takes Mikey off the bus and they drive from one anonymous city to the next, guilty pleasure tracks blasting from the stereo. Mikey's guilty pleasures, not Frank's. They share quite a few, but Mikey recognizes the trend. Mikey says, under the music, "It's just that at some point, I think I expected the fact that a person loved me to actually be enough."

Frank isn't supposed to hear.

He says, "It will be, baby."

Mikey pretends he hasn't heard.

*

The problem with dating someone famous, Mikey has figured out, is that when a person is dumped, there's no way to just ignore the person who dumped him. Mikey can't walk past a newsstand, can't listen to the radio, can't turn on a damn TV if he wants to be really cautious about things. In the cities, he has to be really careful about which walls and billboards he checks out.

His Sidekick is problematic, too. He changes his homepage to ESPN. Mikey doesn't really like sports, but it seems like a safe bet. Everyone on that channel is pretty sure Pete is a fag. Mikey has never imagined homophobia as being useful.

He learns a lot about football by accident, which—bizarrely—endears him to Spencer. Spencer seems to call him a lot, every few days worth of a lot, just to talk football or something stupid like that. It takes Mikey almost a month to realize Spencer's worried. It takes him even longer to figure out that probably means Bob is worried, too.

Mikey's reality is a bit un-lyrical—that's how he thinks of it in his head—these days. Mikey asks Spencer, "Do you even like football?"

"When I'm with my dad," Spencer says. "It seemed to help."

Mikey hasn't been paying attention. When he does, he realizes Spencer's a little bit right. It's just so removed from anything, everything. Also, most quarterbacks come equipped with really nice asses.

He finds Bob and asks, "Did you sic your boyfriend on me, or was that just—"

"He's not good at sitting back and pretending the hurt doesn't exist." Bob closes his mouth tight and Mikey thinks there are things, so many things, Bob isn't saying. He wonders if they're Bob's things or Spencer's things. Either way, he doesn't ask. He tucks himself up next to Bob and says, "This could have been worse."

"That's sort of generally true of life, Mikey Way."

"This could have been Frank and Gerard."

Bob just sighs.

"And they lived through that."

Bob is noticeably silent.

"Bob."

"Sometimes giving a crap about you people really blows," Bob says, somewhat contemplatively.

"Spencer pissed you introduced him to us?"

Bob says, "It's all right, he probably does angry sex really well."

"You think?"

"He does every other kind really well."

Pete hadn't, not always, but Mikey misses those parts all the same.

*

The first time Frank consciously calls Mikey "baby," he shouldn't. At the time, it isn't meant as anything other than a verbal marker of care, of friendship that is too much for the term friendship, even with all that term can imply.

Still, he shouldn't. Mikey is too fucking thin from a three day love affair with several bottles of Ketel One, and Frank is too fucking tired from the dregs of his secret, personal, lingering depression over Gerard, and neither of them are in a place where they should be calling each other by anything besides their names. Maybe not even those.

But Frank rolls over the morning the Mikey decides to let the hangover hit and for the first time since he and Gerard had goodbye sex—slow and hesitant and nothing like all the times when they had real sex—sees something outside of himself. Mikey stumbles to the bathroom. Gerard is watching from the couch, his eyes skittering to and from the closed door. Frank asks, "What happened?"

Gerard looks away. "He won't talk to me." Then, softly, and with real intent, "I hate our fans."

Gerard doesn't, and he'll be fine by the time they have to play that evening, but it tells Frank what's going on. Mikey really has to stop thinking that these assholes who sleep with him as a form of proxy are going to suddenly be convinced that it's Mikey they wanted in the first place.

It also tells him he's probably not the best person to do this, and it's not that Ray or Bob wouldn't clean Mikey up if he asked, but he doesn't want to ask. He saves up his favors. Also, he wants to be the one to clean Mikey up. He's selfish like that with Mikey. He hasn't yet been able to understand why, when he never had problems handing Gerard over to Ray—or Mikey, of course, but that was Gerard and Mikey. If Mikey had let Gerard in the bathroom, that would have been that.

Maybe it's because Gerard never minded being handed over, and always waited for him to come back, later. Frank closes his eyes, takes a deep breath and doesn't think about Gerard. He opens the door to the bathroom, and stops breathing. He turns on the fan. It won't do much, but Frank's a big believer in little steps. Mikey's curled on the floor in a ball. Frank flushes the toilet, and props him up against the wall. Mikey says, "Um. Maybe not done."

And that's when Frank says, "It's okay, baby."

Mikey says, "No. Fuck you, okay?"

"Yeah. Yeah," Frank says, because he deserved that. "Here, wait."

Frank goes and sets some coffee to percolating, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. Gerard's eyes follow his every move, but Frank ignores him. It's mean, Gerard's just worried, but Frank needs a little time to be mean, even if their break up wasn't really Gerard's fault. It wasn't really Frank's either, and it sucks not having someone to blame. It sucks still wanting to talk to Gerard at the end of the day and knowing that maybe when the last of the hurt runs itself out, maybe they can, but for now they'll just end up doing things that won't go anywhere and then Frank will be stuck crying all over again. And he really will have nobody but himself to blame that time.

He comes back with the water. Mikey's where he left him, so at least he hasn't puked anymore. Frank says, "Let me help you stand up, get you to the sink."

Mikey glares and says, "I can't be him for you anymore than I can be him for some random asshole."

"What was the asshole's name?" Frank asks, because to have caused this, it might have been casual, but it wasn't random.

Mikey just glares up at him.

Frank says, "No Mikey, you really fucking can't be him for me."

Mikey blinks at that and slowly, slowly, reaches out a hand. Frank takes it and very carefully gets him to his feet.

*

The second time Frank calls Mikey "baby" they are both strung out on adrenaline, in the middle of a show, Mikey's guitar is cradling up to his and it might as well be Mikey's hip, Mikey's cock, maybe it's more important and Frank sidles his own instrument into the touch and Frank doesn't have to think, "we can do this, sure, they won't, this is fine," because it isn't like that.

Except maybe it is, because he says, "Yeah, baby, yeah," and Mikey doesn't tell him to fuck off. He doesn't even say it later, when their sweat has dried and they've downed two bottles of Gatorade each and they're waiting for their respective turns at the shower. Mikey says, "You had a good show."

In Frank's head it always comes together, even though at the time he can pick every minute detail apart. Sometimes Frank thinks of playing in a show as being in a comic, one of the old-time ones that he's not supposed to like because they're sort of hokey and lacking in subtlety, but he collected them as a kid, the ones with honest-to-goodness super-powers, he collected them and had dreams about flying or being invisible. As it turns out, his super power is a sort of attention to detail, a way to break down everything from the weave of Gerard's shirt to the quivering motions of the guitar strings once plucked. Afterward, though, afterward it's just one big sensation, so he says, "We all did."

"Yeah," Mikey agrees easily enough.

Gerard emerges from the bunks in boxer shorts and grins at both of them, even as his eyes land on Frank, a bit curious. He whaps Mikey on the head with his used towel. Mikey catches the end of the towel, yanks, and whaps back on Gerard's bare chest. Gerard pouts. "Ow."

"You started it," Mikey says.

"That was clearly an unprovoked attack," Gerard says, looking at Frank expectantly.

Frank rolls his eyes and stays silent. Mikey blinks at him. "I think that's your line."

Frank looks at Mikey. "You want me to back him up?"

"Um." Mikey tilts his head. "Why are you asking me?"

Frank looks at Gerard, then, who looks worried. Frank says, "You know what? You take next shower. I'm gonna go grab myself another Gatorade," and walks away from questions he can't answer.

*

At around two months, Ray programs Mikey's homepage to CNN, which can be problematic, but isn't all the time. He leaves him an email saying, "You're tougher than this, Mikey Way."

Probably, but Mikey just doesn't see any reason to be tough. Until now, nobody seems to have expected it or needed it from him. It's nice to know Ray realizes. It makes Mikey want to pull it together, not disappoint him.

Once he tries, Mikey remembers how easy, how completely simple it is to push aside the parts that hurt the worst. To forget the part where he started thinking about forever and just go along with the transience of this world, of his place in it. Frank watches him out of the corner of his eye, Mikey can feel the weight of his stare, but Mikey is good at this part, at coming together, even if sections of himself get left behind, have to be glossed over, hidden in places nobody but himself will find. Ray shares a thing of red licorice with him while they're warming up one day. He asks, "Where'd you go?"

Mikey scrunches up his face. "What are you talking about?"

"Gerard's looking everywhere for you. It's freaking him out that he can't find you."

"Ray."

"I didn't mean you had to stop grieving, Mikey. I meant that you had to stop hiding from the things that were causing the grief."

Mikey strums through a chord, but it's off. "Maybe I was just tired of grieving."

"We generally are well before we're ready to stop," Ray says. "You and Gerard taught me that. But you stayed with it until it left you, or at least, enough of it left."

Mikey doesn't think all of his grandmother's loss will ever fall from him. He doesn't want it to. "That was different."

"Yeah." Then, "And the same."

Mikey finds his chord. "I'm set."

Ray says, "Mhm."

*

Gerard knows there are times when Mikey thinks he's not listening to him, but Gerard listens. He listens to Mikey's answers in interviews and the rhythm of Mikey's breathing when Gerard passes by his bunk. He listens to what Mikey orders when they go out to eat and the pacing of his typing when he's sending out emails at rare quiet moments during the day. Mostly he listens when Mikey is playing, which is how he knows, really knows, when things start to go wrong.

Mikey's playing is never, ever perfect, there are chords that don't fall right, bars that run too fast, too slow. Gerard loves it, could live his life to that soundtrack. Does, at times.

When Mikey's not feeling it, his playing gets textbook. Nothing out of place, not a string unplucked. Gerard, who can talk forever to audiences—seen or unseen—and write until his fingers bleed, isn't wholly sure what to say, so he buys Mikey a dozen packages of the sour gummi worms he really likes, despite the fact that those fuckers have a decidedly marshmallow-type consistency and really, really shouldn't be put in anyone's body.

They make Mikey happy.

Mikey smiles at him, a tired smile, the kind Gerard can tell he's working for. "Hey, thanks." He rips open the first bag and takes one out, chewing on it slowly. He doesn't take another one. He hasn't been ordering much at meals either, lately.

Gerard says, "You, uh, got something on your mind?"

"Why, you stop thinking on a regular basis?" Mikey asks. Smartass.

"You've been a bit...quiet."

"I'm always quiet, Gerard. I'm the quiet one."

"You're not and you know what I meant because you know me, so could you please just, you know, tell me. Because I know, I know I don't deserve it, I know you came to me a million times and said the same thing and I said things I shouldn't have said, I don't know what they were, I can't remember and I think I'm lucky that I don't remember, because I'm not sure I could live with myself if I knew, so I know that if you said no you wouldn't talk to me I would deserve it, but I swear Mikey, I swear I'll beg."

"I said I forgave you," Mikey says quietly, accusatorily.

"I know." Gerard blinks. "I know. But that's different than forgiving myself, isn't it?"

Mikey sighs, but he takes another worm, so regardless of his utter repulsion, Gerard takes heart. Slowly, Mikey says, "It's just. I dunno. The doldrums."

It's a funny word, but so absolutely Mikey and what's more, Gerard knows exactly what he means. Gerard nods. "You want me to talk to management, see if we can rearrange a couple of dates? Give you some down time?"

Mikey's smile is natural this time, not big, or even particularly happy, but it happens without prompting. "Gerard."

"I'm serious. I can afford to piss off fans. I can't afford to lose you, even to your own head."

"Stop being a drama queen."

Gerard smiles his goofy smile, the one he knows makes Mikey forgive him most things. "Can't help it."

Mikey rolls his eyes. "I'm okay. Not more, not less. But okay."

Gerard listens to Mikey talk, too, so he knows when Mikey is lying. But he also knows when to let things with Mikey lie, when to wait for him to come around. He nods. "Okay."

Mikey knows he's been let off the hook, Gerard can see it.

Gerard says, "Okay," again and starts to stand, but Mikey reaches a hand out, presses it to Gerard's knee. That's all Gerard needs to grab Mikey's shoulders, pull him into his arms and hold him there, hold him so hard that no matter how much he struggles, he's not escaping. Gerard is still his older brother, dammit.

Mikey doesn't struggle.

*

The third time Frank says it the word comes out "babe," not "baby." They're playing a game of Risk—Mikey likes games that involve boards and pieces and strategy, rather than screens and remotes—and Mikey says, "I'm gonna grab some lemonade, you want anything?"

Frank stands—Mikey's kicking his ass anyway—and says, "I'll get it, babe," and then scurries to the kitchen trying to look normal before he has to catch Mikey's eye or think about why he might have just said that. He's pouring the lemonade when he hears someone come up behind him. He says, "No seriously, I meant I'd—"

"What are you doing?" Gerard asks.

Frank stills. "At the moment, pouring lemonade." This is a lie. The lemonade is already in the glasses.

"Because whatever else," Gerard's voice is soft, nearly silent, and so sharp Frank hardly recognizes it, "whatever else, you loved me and I loved you and you weren't the type of person who could do something like this."

Frank turns at that, trying to know the man in front of him who he knows so well. "Fuck you and your past tense."

"Frank—"

"What do you think I would do to him, Gerard? What do you think? Do you think I would use him to fulfill whatever void you left? No, no, even better, for revenge? Maybe you loved me, but I get the moral high ground of fucking _loving_ you, so you can just—"

"Frank—"

"He isn't you. He isn't you and no, maybe I don't know what I'm doing and maybe because he isn't you I can't just fuck up until he catches me, in fact, I can't, I already know that, but this isn't…Whatever you think this is, it isn't that."

Gerard's eyes are wide and startled and a bit wet. Frank doesn't rail very often, and for about eight months now almost never at Gerard. He would apologize, except he thinks he's owed one. Gerard says, "I fuck him up enough just by existing. Occasionally I like to do something right by him."

Frank sighs. "You do all right by him. And even if you didn't, he would still love you."

Gerard's shoulders rise a notch. "But I wouldn't deserve it."

Frank can hear the part about Gerard not really thinking he deserves it now. "You would," he says.

"Frank," Gerard says.

"Gerard." Frank takes the step necessary to rest his forehead against Gerard's. "You wou— You do. You do."

*

Frank makes his move before he's wholly ready because Mikey has made a habit of going off with men who have mean, intent looks in their eyes, or who seem like maybe they need something, just something, or who don't even notice Mikey at all, so much as gaze past him to Gerard. Pretty much, Mikey gives anything that might not make him feel better a chance. Which is why Frank figures it's a lost cause, but at least Mikey thinks Frank's still jonesing for Gerard, so there's that.

Later, when Mikey has locked himself away and Frank has too much time to ask himself questions better left unasked, then he will wonder if that's why Mikey gives him a chance, and if—no matter how much Frank thinks, 'oh, right' everytime his hand finds the small of Mikey's back, everytime his cock pulls against Mikey's fast and long and hard—they are just kidding themselves.

But when Mikey's going through boys too pretty for their own good and men too fractured for anyone's good, Frank doesn't have the luxury of wondering if he's any better or not. He waits till Mikey is drunk, which goes against everything he's ever told himself about who he is, but Mikey never allows himself to look at Frank until he's completely plastered, so there doesn't seem to be much of a choice. Frank says, "Come home with me."

Mikey says, "Gerard will kill you first if we fuck up the band."

Frank knows. "Yeah." He thinks Gerard will let him live if he can stop this particular downward spiral, but Gerard is unpredictable, and Frank's not making any definite statements.

Frank grabs a bottle of water when they get in. He takes a sip, then presses a hand to Mikey's stomach, pushes him to the couch and feeds the water into his mouth. It's still cold, he hasn't held it that long and Mikey gasps but he takes it without sputtering. Frank repeats the action. Then he gives Mikey the bottle and says, "Drink."

For a second, Mikey looks like he might argue. Then he takes the bottle and finishes it off. Then he says, " _Now_ will you fuck me?"

Frank slips to his knees, in between Mikey's legs, and undoes his jeans. He's got his mouth on Mikey's cock, his finger in Mikey's ass before Mikey can do so much as breathe and Mikey says, "Frank, fuck. Frank, that is not—"

Frank says, "Shut up," around Mikey's cock and despite the fact that there is NO way for Mikey to know what he says, Mikey does. Mikey comes and Frank swallows without so much as thinking about it and when he pulls back slightly, Mikey says, "I'm gonna—"

Frank sits on the couch, pulls Mikey onto his lap, arches into him and says, "Relax."

Mikey's asleep before Frank has come.

*

Frank is sipping coffee and reading Mikey's latest _Hellboy_ when Mikey drags himself out of bed, asks, "Any of that left?"

Frank made a fresh pot after the first was done, knowing Mikey was going to want—need—some once woken. He nods. Mikey pads on past him, and Frank can hear him getting a mug, pouring from the pot. Mikey comes back and sits across from Frank, which, to be honest, surprises Frank. He would have bet good money on avoidance. He wouldn't mind it, altogether, just now. Mikey says, "That's a good one, don't you think?"

Frank, to be honest, hasn't really had the capability of paying attention. "The new guy they've got on outline duty is good."

"I meant the story," Mikey says.

"I know," Frank tells him.

Mikey takes a sip of his coffee and rubs at his temples. Frank gets up, grabs some of the store-brand paracetemol that Gerard likes and brings Mikey a couple of tablets. Mikey takes them, says, "Thanks."

Frank says, "I'm gonna—"

"You put me to bed."

"Yeah, you were sleeping."

"I just meant, you didn't, I mean—"

"I didn't know if you'd wanna wake up in a bed you weren't used to. And I figured you'd have a hangover, and then if you needed to get to the bathroom and you got disoriented— Anyway, I just thought you'd be better with yours."

"Not a second thought thing, then?"

"I wasn't drunk, Mikey."

"I thought maybe it was a pity fuck. Because if it was, I'm not gonna let it make things all weird. With the band."

Frank's frustration blurs with anger and for a second everything is tinted bright, sick orange from the merging of the two. "I've had your brother, Mikey Way, I don't need you, too." Which is wrong, grammatically, since Frank suspects Mikey is the one he needed all along, but contextually he thinks it fits.

"Well, that's why—" Something in Frank's face stops Mikey. Maybe it's the way Frank really wants to cry. He doesn't think there are visible indicators, but maybe there are. "Not a pity fuck?"

"Would it be easier for you," Frank snarls, "if it were?"

"Less complicated," which is both a lie, Frank realizes, and not the same thing as 'easier.'

"Have it your way," Frank spreads his hands and starts to walk away, only Mikey catches the hand left lagging.

"I don't... I'm not much into easy."

"Fucking understatement of the century."

Mikey swallows. "Don't be mad."

Frank says, "That's not fair, Mikey, it's not fair for you to ask that."

Mikey says, "I know," and doesn't retract the request.

*

The fourth time Frank calls Mikey "baby" happens during the second time they have sex.

They are not, precisely, together. They are not, precisely, not together.

What they are is alone in the studio. Mikey is looking at himself in the window separating them from the soundboards and Frank can see him thinking, "Where are my glasses?" even though Mikey made the decision, made it himself, and Frank thinks he thought it would make him feel like he was hiding less. But Mikey likes to hide.

Frank couldn't say it at the time, when the decision was being made, but maybe he should have. Maybe that was the friend thing to do. It's not so much that Mikey forgets that he wants them back, as that he doubts his own wisdom and Frank really wishes he wouldn't, because even with everything he's got going on, crowding out his own smarts, Mikey's a pretty bright guy.

Frank sidles up behind him and says, "I like seeing your eyes."

It takes Mikey a second too long to say, "What?" so Frank doesn't repeat himself.

Mikey pushes back a little and says, "We've gotta—"

Frank sinks his teeth lightly into the back of Mikey's neck, his eyes never leaving the window, so he sees the flash of surprise from Mikey, the way his breath becomes forceful enough to hit the glass.

"Frank," he says, but it isn't exactly a warning.

"I never did this with him," Frank says, smiling into the glass so that Mikey will see.

Mikey asks, "Why not?"

"He never would have let me."

"He does fans in bathrooms."

"Maybe I was different. I don't know. This wasn't our thing."

"Why would it be ours?"

"I think he knew that if we got caught, he'd be the one talking and he didn't want to. Not about that."

"But if we—"

"I'd tell people it wasn't any of their business. I'd tell people they should look at you and tell me it made any sense to stay away. What would you tell them?"

"You took a risk for me."

Frank can't stop himself then, could only stop himself if Mikey were to say, "No," or "Don't," or "Stop." He doesn't, and Frank's hands are undoing his buttons, in his pants, wanking him so hard that it probably hurts a bit, but there isn't pain on Mikey's face. Frank is rubbing against him, the press of his jeans to his cock raw, rougher than he generally prefers, but Mikey's mouth is slightly open, his eyes drooping and there's nothing, nothing but, "Mikey, baby, Mikey."

"Keep talking," Mikey says, and it's a request but a forceful one.

"So fucking hot, baby, so fucking everything," and he says more, but Mikey's coming all over his hand, inside his jeans and they're going to be messy when the others come back, but Frank really couldn't care less, not if he tried. He presses himself further into Mikey, knows the low-sitting makeup counter has to be digging into Mikey's thighs—maybe he'll apologize later—and comes with just the barest rocking upward.

Mikey supports them both, his hands flat against the window, and some poor intern is going to be wiping that thing down, wondering what the hell they were getting up to in here to leave such obvious marks. Frank licks lightly, once, at Mikey's neck, and lets go of his cock, placing it back inside, returning him to his normal state of less-than-whole dishevel.

Mikey says, "This is a bad idea."

Frank says, "That all of mine were so bad."

*

Mikey would miss the photos if he could, but he's too plugged in, too connected. He looks at the cock with which he is intimately familiar and for the first time, looking feels like betrayal. He calls Patrick. "I know he doesn't want to talk to me—"

Mikey hears the rustling of a phone being pressed to someone else's ear before he's even finished talking. Pete asks, "Hello?" He sounds like someone took sandpaper to his vocal chords.

"Hey," Mikey says softly. "Don't hang up, okay?"

Pete says, "Call because you were missing some of that?"

Mikey closes his eyes. Pete's the hardest fighter he's ever met in a lifetime of living around fighters. Mikey understands the impulse. "Stop."

"If I stop, I won't—"

"No, Pete, sometimes you can stop for a little bit. Stall, maybe. Rest. That's what you've gotta do here, is rest."

"It was just stupidity, Mikey. Nothing that merits a nice call."

"You're not stupid."

"I was then."

"Maybe you were angry or desperate or scared. I don't know. I don't— We haven't spoken. But you weren't stupid. That's the part I know."

"That's what they're all saying. Pointing and looking and saying and it's not theirs, you know that? It's not theirs, but they think it is and somehow _I'm_ the stupid one."

"Topsy-turvy world," Mikey agrees.

"Evidently. Because I did my worst with you, and here you are."

"Not your worst," Mikey says.

"No, probably not. Still."

And yes, still. So very much still. "Still. You're my friend." It's the first time he's said that word in connection with Pete since they broke up. The letters stick at odd angles inside of him, but truth is often harsh and unwieldy in that way.

"Mikey," Pete whispers.

Mikey recognizes a plea when he hears it. "Yes," he tells Pete. "Yes."

*

It's been a while since Mikey's gotten a call from Pete in the middle of the night—a long while, since Pete stopped doing that well before he ever left—but it's surprisingly easy to slide back into answering, "Hey, what's wrong?"

Pete says, "I'm sorry."

"I'll fall back asleep, what's up?"

"No, I meant. I'm _sorry_."

Oh. "Me too."

"Don't, Mikey Way."

Mikey makes himself swallow. It's something of a feat. "Why not? You get to."

"I walked away."

Yeah, but it takes two, Mikey knows. "I didn't have what you needed."

"Closest I've ever come to it."

"Not much of a consolation prize," Mikey tells him. Amazingly, though, it is something. He can feel the way it settles, just a little warm, in his chest. He doesn't recognize the sensation at first—it's been a while since he's felt something, anything, positive. He's not sure he appreciates it, he was doing pretty well with his painfully established numbness. But then, that's Pete. Mikeys's not giving him up this time.

Pete says, "All I have, Mikey Way."

"It's enough."

Pete is silent for a long time. Even without hearing it, Mikey knows he's crying. Pete always cries without sound. Finally Pete says, "I'm trying to avoid the 'net."

"Nah," Mikey says, "ESPN."

"Really?"

"Yeah. We're in basketball season now, so Spencer's not gonna be much help, and if we ask Frank, we're going to need to be willing to dedication some serious hours to the venture, but I bet between the two of us we could figure it out."

"What does Spencer have to do with anything?"

"He's a football prodigy."

"We are both referring to Spencer Smith, right?"

"The inimitable." Mikey smiles.

"Evidently, when we don't talk, I miss all the important shit."

"I'm the go-to guy."

"Yeah," Pete says. "You are."

*

Gerard won't leave his side, which should be annoying but Mikey has always found Gerard's most strident efforts to be a big brother comforting. Particularly when they're not all that necessary.

Mikey goes to Pete, because Pete may call him, but he's not going to come to Mikey, not so soon. Gerard follows. Mikey lets him. He needs to know that things are really all right.

Pete gives him a nervous grin, so Mikey hugs him. It takes some nerve, and a deep breath on Mikey's part, but then Pete melts into it, the way he does when he knows something won't hurt him and Mikey couldn't if he tried. When they pull apart, Pete glances over at Gerard and wilts a bit. Mikey looks, and sure enough Gerard is tense, worried. He holds out for all of three seconds against slightly-diminished Pete at which point he mutters, "Fuck," and pulls Pete into a hug of his very own. He whispers, "Could you please, please not be an asshole to him again? Because that really sucked," and then wanders off into the crowd, leaving them on their own.

"Ignore him," Mikey says. "He has a severely debilitating case of older brother syndrome."

Pete laughs a little, but it's relieved laughter, and Mikey knows he doesn't yet trust the forgiveness he's been granted. That's all right. They have time. Mikey actually believes the words when he thinks them in this context.

Pete tells him, "It's cliche, but I've decided the Bulls are going to be my team."

Mikey nods. "You _should_ root for your hometown. Besides, I think they're good. Or maybe they were. I know I hear their name a lot."

"What about you? You don't have a hometown team."

"Sure, rub it in."

"Gonna adopt New York?"

" _That_ would be cliche."

"You haven't decided?"

"The Magics."

"See, I should have seen that one coming."

"Little bit, yeah." Mikey smirks.

"So now predictable is better than cliche?"

Mikey is pretty sure they each have their moments. "Predictable is part of friendship."

"That part I know. The predictable and the part of friendship thing. I knew that."

"You're smart."

Pete shakes his head. "Not with this stuff."

"You knew we didn't work. I would have kept—"

"I know."

"See? Smart."

"I'm not sure rational processes such as intelligence have ever had anything to do with my relationship with you, Mikey Way."

Mikey will give Pete that. "Still."

"Insistent much?" Pete asks with a grin.

"That's part of friendship, too. The believing thing."

"I'm good at that part."

One of Mikey's favorite things about Pete is the way he sees the absolute best of the people he chooses to see at all. "Great, even."

"I was trying to come over to you," Pete tells him.

Mikey would think he is changing the subject, but he understands the way subjects just don't confine Pete's thought processes. Mikey's often the same exact way. It makes talking between them at once much simpler and infinitely harder. "You didn't have to."

"No, but I wanted to. Gerard was looking a little scary."

Mikey never thinks Gerard looks scary, even when he clearly does. "Sorry about that. Like I said—"

"Older brother. I know. I'm just trying to say that I'm glad. That you came to me."

"You would have walked away by now, if you weren't."

"This is going to be nice, the you-knowing-me thing."

"Yeah," Mikey says, "it is."

*

The nice thing about being a rock star is that just about anybody will sleep with Mikey. And since he doesn't give a crap who it is they're seeing when they push him to the wall, push in, push deep, would almost _prefer_ they were seeing Gerard— _Mikey_ Way, _Mikey_ Way—it's really, really easy to get laid and laid well by the type he likes most.

Sex is nice without complications, as easy as swallowing a pill, a shot of bourbon. He doesn't question the way it never feels quite right doing exactly as he wishes, the way he never wants to stay with them afterward, the way sex is just nice, and nothing else. Questions are bound to cause trouble, nothing more.

He doesn't even question when the sex stops being so nice, when his pleasure becomes vague and all but unreachable. That's fine, so long as it comes, so long as things seem to be working. Appearances are everything. He has seen Gerard perform. He has learned.

Frank watches him with those fucking eyes, watches and sometimes tries to find Mikey's pleasure and Mikey wants to tell him, "This can't be yours, too, it can't," but it already is, and Mikey has to lie to too many people right now to expend the energy on Frank. Maybe in a month or so, when it comes back to him. It always comes back. It always has.

For now he has to ignore the way Frank says his name—not like the fans, not like Pete, like Frank and that's always been Mikey's problem, is that Frank is too fucking much like Frank. There's nothing to be done for it.

Mikey has the grace to accept the things he cannot change, if not the courage. Courage is overrated, unless you're Gerard. Perseverance will almost always win out in the end. Almost.

*

Mikey doesn't stop sleeping with the boys who will never have what he wants and the men who don't care what he needs, but he comes to Frank when he's drunk, which has begun to be an event of startling regularity. Frank does what he can to control the situation, to still be able to wake up in the morning and look at himself but the day he actually can't meet Gerard's eye is the day he says, "Jesus, I think I fucked up."

He waits, he waits for Gerard—who has never lifted a hand to him, never, not even the time he was high as a fucking Boeing 747 and Frank, desperate, told him he was a fucking weak cunt—to hit him. Gerard says, softly, "I need you to look at me."

Which is maybe worse. Frank could have taken physical pain.

But Mikey is Gerard's younger brother and Gerard deserves his pound of flesh at least as much as Shylock did, so Frank makes himself settle his gaze on Gerard's. What he finds there very nearly breaks him in a way that nothing, _nothing_ Gerard has ever done to him before—not even blowing Matt, fucking _Matt_ , right where he knew Frank would see—could have.

Gerard isn't mad.

Frank babbles, he can't help it. In the face of Gerard's compassion he will say anything, _anything_ that might make his transgressions less heinous. "I just wanted to keep him away from— You know how he is, you know how he goes away from the things that could help, and I thought at least with me it wasn't going to hurt him, I thought, because either he wanted it and it would be all right or he didn't and that would, um, well, but _he_ would be safe, only now he, I don't know—"

Gerard shuts him up by pulling him into a hug so tight Frank can barely breathe. Gerard has the very best hugs, bar none. Bob's are pretty good, and Mikey's have definite beauty and charm to them, but Gerard's are utterly classic, unrefined and fierce. Frank holds on for dear life.

Gerard says, "I think I get the picture. Kind of."

"I should have talked to you first."

"Because of us?"

"Because you protect him better than anyone else." The knowledge is painful but true, and Frank has never been big on self-deception.

"You don't do such a bad job."

"You don't know—"

"I know his prescriptions need to be filled more often than they should be and that those bottles come with warnings about not mixing with liquor. I know, Frank. I just haven't figured out what to do about it, exactly." It's the first truly soothing thing Gerard has said in the whole conversation. If Gerard's stuck for answers as well, maybe there's some hope. So long as the answers are found.

Frank has come to have a hard time believing that Gerard ever fails to find the answers. It's just a matter of time. Frank's not sure how much Mikey has of that. His voice shakes as he says, "You don't know that I've been getting him off when he asks. When he's drunk."

Gerard stiffens but doesn't loosen his hold. Finally he says, "That was your plan to save him?"

"When you ask it like that, given hindsight, it seems like a pretty stupid plan. But at the time all I thought was that I had to be better for him than the raver he was trying to pick up that night."

"Frank," Gerard sighs.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so—"

"Sh."

Frank's glad Gerard stops him, because he's not sure he can stop himself. "I don't know what to do anymore."

"It's not just you, though, now."

"It wasn't really ever," Frank says, because even if he and Gerard hadn't spoken about this, he doesn't think Gerard just wasn't paying attention.

"Well," Gerard runs a hand over Frank's back, "now you know it."

Frank says, "Gee," and doesn't say, "I love you," because he's not allowed to say that anymore—yet—despite it meaning something else, something new.

"Frankie," Gerard whispers, and his statement sounds truncated, too.

*

The question is so soft Mikey almost doesn't hear it over the soft clicks of his Sidekick's buttons. He wishes he hadn't. He keeps typing. He's not even sure what he's typing anymore, but that's okay, Joe's never judgmental about shit like that. Largely because, in most cases, Joe doesn't realize things have taken a turn for the incoherent.

But Gerard asks again. "I said, do you have any idea what you're doing?"

"If I didn't," Mikey says, not looking up from the screen, "would it be any of your fucking business?"

"Mikey—"

"Mikey," Mikey mimics, "Mikey, Mikey, Mikey. Band's stupid little brother, always saying idiotic things. Ever notice how everybody forgets that Frank's a fucking _year_ younger than me? How I used to get you jobs, because you were too fucked up to fill out an application that mostly asked for your _name_?"

Gerard is quiet for a moment and Mikey starts to think that maybe he's won, maybe Gerard will go away and they won't have to talk about Frank and how he went from loving Gerard to pitying Mikey. Gerard asks, "Have you been drinking?"

Just a little. Just enough to take the edge from last night's binge off, to get the anti-depressants going. "What the fuck does that have to do with anything?"

It's annoying, because Gerard knows all the tricks. He knows them in general, and he knows Mikey specifically.

"It's ten in the morning."

Mikey holds up his coffee cup with the hand that isn't holding his Sidekick. " _You're_ gonna lecture me?"

"I'm worried."

"Relax. Frank just likes that I would bend over and take it if he asked. Which he hasn't. Too much gentleman in him by half. But I can break him of that, I'm sure."

"Mikey—"

"If you wanted him back, I'm sure you could figure out the position."

"It wasn't just—"

"Whatever. I'm not as stupid as everyone thinks. If you could remember that from time to time, that would be awesome. But if not, that's fine, too."

"I don't think you're stupid."

Mikey's pretty done having this conversation, though. Joe has actually started to notice something is up. Gerard's normal course of action, Mikey knows, would be to retreat, gather his forces, attack at first morning's light. Gerard stays where he is.

Mikey would never admit it, but everything aside, he's glad to have him there. It frustrates the shit out of him.

*

It is not that Frank doesn't see Mikey. Mikey gets that. Frank sees him. In all the important ways, Frank sees him. It's just that in the one way Mikey has always wanted Frank to see him, his gaze has always slipped, always wandered to the blinding phenomenon that is Gerard. When it comes to settle on Mikey, after all his waiting—well, not waiting, one can't wait for something that's not going to happen—he doesn't know how to understand it, can't believe it. Can't believe in it.

Mikey hates himself for not being able to say no. It's such an infinitely simple little word, made so for a reason, but every time he puts his tongue to the roof of his mouth, not a sound arises. It makes him hate Frank a little, this power he has over Mikey, this right to take from him by giving. Mikey has so little left. Gerard is fine, Gerard is better than fine, he's better than Mikey has ever known him to be. He doesn't need Mikey to get him out of the house, or to get him a job, or to put him to bed after a bender, or keep him upright while he frees himself of the drugs.

He doesn't need Mikey, not really. The only person who needs Mikey at the moment is Mikey, and that's the one person Mikey's forgotten how to be there for. And Frank comes in with his smile and his strong hands and thinks that pretending, that almost giving Mikey what he wants will be enough. It's so far from enough Mikey can't even see the landscape of enough from where he's standing. But he's the one not saying no. And Frank, for all the things he is, isn't a mind reader.

Frank's touches take away the prurient, mindless pleasure of other men's touches. Mikey thinks about calling Pete, about testing the theory, but Pete might be the one person on the planet who validly needs Mikey, or at least needs Mikey not to fuck him up any more than he already is, so Mikey stays far the hell away from his Sidekick.

He tries to get Frank to stop without saying no, begs with everything but words, but evidently Frank has traded not seeing Mikey for not hearing him, and all of Mikey's silences fall on deaf ears. Frank touches him in all the places Mikey has kept for himself for so, so long and when Mikey thinks, _look away, damn you_ , he keeps his eyes precisely where they are.

*

Frank knows that whatever brings the absolute end—the rain of glass and blood and anger—that part's just an unconscious act on his part, a moment where, to be honest, he's not even thinking about Gerard as Gerard, just thinking that whatever he said—and he'll never remember it afterward, not even when he puts his normally quite reliable memory up to it—was funny. But he also knows that catalysts are so very rarely the real reason behind any fracturing, and this time is no different.

Which doesn't make the end result any less his fault. Oh, it's not his to hold that Mikey is depressed or reckless with that depression. It's not his to hold that booze and pills make all the lines of the story blurred and liable to morph into wholly different words. But it is his that two nights earlier Frank says, "Just once, just once before I stop, kiss me while you actually know who I am."'

Mikey laughs and Frank realizes that it is meant to be his casual laugh, the one that throws off the previous person's comments as insignificant, but it is bitter, jagged. "I always know who you are, _babe_."

Like being pierced with a spectacularly sharp object, there is a moment of blessed numbness before Frank feels the pain hit.

"You want me to see you?" Mikey asks and now Frank isn't sure because even without the liquor, this isn't Mikey.

"I just—"

"What, Frankie?"

"Don't—"

"Don't call you that? Is that Gee's name for you? That what you think in your mind when you have my cock down your throat?"

"No," Frank says, because maybe he's confused now, but he's not that confused. There's not enough confusion in the world for him to be that confused.

"Then what? What, Frankie? What were you going to say?"

"I should get back—"

"You kept me here. I could have been out having a good time. You want to pretend like maybe you owe me an explanation?"

Frank wishes he could say he doesn't owe Mikey anything. He doesn't have anything else to say for himself. "I suppose I just wanted to know who I was to you."

Mikey takes a step toward him, tilts his head. The gesture is calm, very nearly like Mikey, but not just quite. All the same, Frank is caught by the tenderness of his fingers as he reaches out to caress Frank's cheek, the softness of his lips as he kisses him. It has never been like this, not once, and that alone should warn Frank, but he doesn't see the shove coming, anymore than he sees the wall before it hits his head, dazing him.

"Mikey," he says, because it's the only word he can form with some semblance of coherence.

He gets his wish—if it is a wish—because Mikey's on him then—and oh, he's pretty sure it wasn't a wish—twisting him, grinding him into the wall, Mikey's cock hard and angry through his jeans. Mikey crushes into him, rubs off on him and it should be the hottest thing Frank's ever done, Mikey rocking into him, taking him, but that is _all_ Mikey is doing, is taking, crushing Frank, _hurting_ him, as he's pressed too hard to the wall, bruises forming where his wrists are trapped, still dazed from actual impact. He would try and fight, but he's too dizzy and he doesn't want to hurt Mikey, not if he can avoid it, not if this is as far as things go.

Mikey says, "At least the others don't fucking _know_ I'm not him," and, "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, hatehatehate," until maybe Frank is only hearing it in his head, but it sounds real, it sounds so real and Mikey grinds into him even further and Frank bites his lip to distract himself from the way the bones in his fingers are shifting in resistance to the utter lack of give from the wall.

When he's done, Mikey grabs Frank by the collar and tosses him to the side. Frank stumbles, falls to his knees, closes his eyes so that the room will stop spinning.

"Gonna go run to Gerard?" Mikey asks.

Frank just keeps his eyes closed, as though if he can't see this, it won't be here, it won't have happened, it won't be Mikey and him only not Mikey but definitely him.

"Do whatever the fuck you want," Mikey says. "But keep your hands off of me."

Frank's eyes are still closed when he hears the door close. He's not going to make it to his room before he has to puke, so he uses Mikey's bathroom and when things stay still enough and he's sure he's done, he cleans up a little and then heads back. He lays down, thinks for a second that maybe he has a concussion and shouldn't give into sleep.

He's too tired to care.

*

Mikey wakes up with a guy he doesn't know and a hangover.

The hangover is pretty normal these days, and easily controllable, so long as Mikey can find another bottle of something fermented. The guy not so much. Not that Mikey hasn't been taking his fair share of that sort of thing. More than, really. But he hasn't been staying with them.

He makes his way to the bathroom, opening his eyes as little as possible, and spends the first few moments of his day over the toilet, getting rid of the poison he's been using as fuel. He knows better, he does, but knowing better and changing behavior are two wholly separate islands and at this point, Mikey can't remember how to swim.

When he's done puking and has even managed to get himself somewhat cleaned up in the shower, the night before comes back, the part before the alcohol and even some of it afterward. Mikey pukes all over again, this time on himself, but at least he's in the shower, and that's something. More than he deserves.

He gets himself away from this guy whose name he still doesn't know—maybe they exchanged names, that was after the alcohol. Mikey really fucking hopes not. The house isn't far away, as it turns out, the cab ride being very, very short, but Mikey's all turned around and couldn't have made it back without somebody else handling the directions.

Ray's tuning his guitar and he throws Mikey a frustrated look. "Nice of you to return."

Mikey says, "Sorry," and means it. He says, "I'll be down in a second," and climbs the stairs to his room where he can take a hit of early morning whiskey. He can't do what he has to do without the help, he can't.

Once downstairs, he slams back two of the pills he's technically prescribed—if not at the rate he takes them—and wonders why the fuck he didn't take them the night before, they keep him calm, they keep the things that need keeping kept.

Frank sleeps in and Mikey has to wonder if he did damage that couldn't be seen. Maybe he should tell someone, tell Gerard, Gerard will take care of Frank, Gerard has been taking care of things for a year. But if Frank didn't tell anyone maybe Frank doesn't want anyone to know, and shouldn't Mikey respect that? That seems like coward’s logic.

He's about to take another damn pill and just tell Gerard, or maybe Bob, Bob is good at fixing their messes, when Frank wanders out into the living room area. He's visibly tired and Bob asks, "You gettin' sick, Iero?" sounding concerned.

Frank shakes his head. "Just catching up." It's plausible, they're always catching up. Bob doesn't look convinced, however. Mikey wouldn't be either, even if Mikey didn't know.

It's Ray who notices the wrist, of course it is, because Ray plays the guitar too, and he and Frank have this guitar-player thing between them, and so yes, it makes sense that he's the one, but he says, "Jesus, what did you do?"

"Freak door accident," Frank lies. It rolls right off of him, and Mikey knows right then and there that he's been thinking it up, planning it, maybe even practicing it.

Ray rolls his eyes, because Frank is a klutz and this is a reasonable explanation. "Freak Iero accident, more likely."

Mikey opens his mouth to speak but Frank catches the action out of the corner of his eye and makes a decision for Mikey, speaks right over him. "We have any food in this house?"

Mikey gets up to make him something, respecting that the decision has been made for him. When he's done, Frank actually eats what Mikey hands him and Mikey goes into the bathroom, curling up into a ball and biting his knees until blood not only wells but actually flows. It only makes things a little better.

*

Mikey watches, watches how Frank doesn't put as much of himself into the songs as he normally does, into the hands of the rest of them, the sound techs. Or maybe there just isn't as much of himself to leave.

Mikey would give what he's taken back, only he thinks he was careless, that he left it somewhere. That's the worst part, the very worst, because he's always saved _everything_ from Frank, everything. Mikey can recount every fucking smile, even if Frank had to work for it, everytime their hands have accidentally hit up against each other, every offhand comment Frank has made that caused Mikey's stomach to flutter. Figures it would be the one instant where it would matter, would be utterly essential, when Mikey would absolutely fail to gather the pieces and keep them for later. Then again, maybe Frank hid the pieces. Mikey was, after all, the one who caused them to break off, scatter.

The day after Mikey drinks until they're recording, drinks so that the only thing he can hear is the music, drinks so that the only thing he can see are his strings. He drinks once they get done recording, too, so that he won't remember the other things he heard, the other things he saw, the way Frank is not really Frank at this moment, but someone who looks like him and sometimes, occasionally sounds like him, and how Mikey's the one who made that happen.

Mikey's the destroyer of the things which matter.

If he waits long enough in between drinks, not only can he remember, he can experience the emotion incumbent upon his utter failure. He doesn't wait.

*

The moment Mikey knows what he has to do, is the same moment that he looks at Frank putting his hand on Gerard's shoulder and throws the glass he's holding, drinking from. At them.

Frank was laughing the moment before, using Gerard's shoulder for support, but the second he sees the glass out of the corner of his eye, he's on Gerard, pulling him down. Ray is screaming something, but it's Bob who gets to Mikey first, Bob who says, "Jesus, what the fucking fuck, man?"

Bob pins Mikey's hands to his side, but it doesn't matter because the glass has hit the floor and shattered, parts of it spraying into Gerard's thigh, Frank's bicep. Mikey can see the first hints of red from where he's standing and he's done. He says, "Bob, you gotta—" and realizes there's no way he's going to convince Bob to let him go in time, so just slips to his knees and vomits where he lands.

Bob lets go. There are other hands on him then, and he can smell the blood, which only makes him vomit harder. He manages, "Get off me," but it's weak and unconvincing and Ray is still possibly drowning him out with a string of obscenities.

By the time he can stop retching, Ray's worn himself out and things are silent, save the sounds of all of them breathing, loud and harsh and—if Mikey's anything to go by—terrified. Mikey says, "Oh fuck."

Gerard says, "Mikey," but Mikey starts shaking his head, keeps shaking it until black swims before his eyes and he's afraid he'll start puking again.

"Okay," Gerard says. "I'll make some calls."

Mikey closes his eyes. Good. He doesn't think he can make them himself. He's not sure he can read numbers right now. Frank says, "I'll stay here."

Mikey wants to tell him that he shouldn't, he should go, somewhere far, far and safe, but Frank's hands are cool and light across his back, and they are the only things not driving him into the ground. Mikey sobs. He cannot say the words.

*

Mikey tells Gerard they can come see him. He tells Gerard because Gerard will. Gerard is his brother and he won't think about it, won't consider his options, he will simply come. Mikey will never have to know if Gerard has told the others, if they have refused to come—if Frank has refused to come. Except that Gerard evidently does tell the others, because Frank comes.

Mikey thinks maybe he was wrong, maybe he isn't ready to see the others. Gee, sure, he's Gee. Well, and probably Ray. Ray's always been nicer to Mikey than just about anybody in this world. Okay, Bob would probably be fine, too. Bob is good with things that are broken.

Mikey clutches his arms to himself when Frank shows up, because he won't shake in front of him, he won't. Frank will be _nice_ about it, because Frank is a nice guy and Mikey can't handle that, he just can't. Mikey pre-empts any niceness on Frank's part with an utterly sincere, utterly worthless, "I'm sorry."

Frank says, "I already know that part."

"I still— It still has to be said." Probably a few times. Or more.

"Okay."

"I didn't have the right. Not even— I just didn't."

"Not even what?"

Mikey shakes his head.

"Not even what, Mikey?"

And the thing about Frank is that Mikey will have to have him thrown off the premises if he wants to get out of answering this question. He won't do that. Frank is here and Mikey isn't making him go anywhere. "Not even if I wish you hadn't done what you did. Tried to fix things like that. I don't know, I don't know what you saw happening, but you couldn't have done that forever just because I needed it and then what, you know, but I still didn't have the right. Not to do that."

Frank says, "The biggest fuck up I made, in a considerable series of them, was that I didn't tell you what I was thinking. I didn't say, 'this isn't just for you, Mikey Way.' Because I can be selfless, particularly with you and Gee, but I'm not that fucking selfless. Jesus, Mikey."

Mikey stops breathing for a second. The world starts going gray as he asks, "That was— There was realness, there?"

Frank touches him for the first time since he showed up, presses both hands deep to Mikey's chest. "Breathe, Mikey."

Because he's done refusing Frank, at least for now, Mikey finds a way to. It hurts, but he does it. Frank says, "It just…it was so utterly real. To me."

Was. Mikey breathes in, Frank has told him to breathe. _Waswaswaswas_.

"I think— I think it still can be," Frank continues. "But you have to want it this time. Because I'm— That was sort of harsh."

"I wanted it too much," Mikey coughs out.

"Wanted?"

Mikey does not want to admit that there will never, ever stop being this want. Never. "Want. Oh, fuck, Frank. Want."

"Small favors," Frank murmurs and presses his lips right above where the tips of his fingers lie.

*

The first time Mikey touches Frank after the glass incident he pushes Frank's sleeve up to his shoulder and runs a finger over where a scar is forming amongst the tattoos. He says, "I fucked up your ink."

"I hear scars turn guys on."

Mikey says, "If you could be angry for a bit, I wouldn't mind."

"Wouldn't mind?"

"It would help," Mikey rephrases.

"I know, but every once in a while, I get to make my own decisions."

Mikey's hands shake. Frank says, "No, that wasn't what I meant."

"Does it really matter if that was what you meant, or not?" Mikey asks, and, bizarrely, given the nearly philosophic nature of it, Frank knows that the question is anything but academic.

"If I choose to forgive you, then, yes, I think it does."

"There have to be things that are unforgivable, Frank."

"Why?" Frank asks, actually wanting an answer. Mikey starts to answer, only he remembers, with a clarity that he hasn't known, hasn't felt in months—maybe a year—the things that he watched Gerard do to Frank, let Gerard do because he was Gerard and Mikey didn't know how to intervene, didn't know if Frank would thank him for it. Wasn't sure what he would do if Frank did.

Frank forgave Gerard. Frank still forgives Gerard. Mikey thinks Frank has even forgiven him for not doing what he could have done. Which only makes it all the harder to accept this new forgiveness. At least, in the last instance, it was only the absence of action that needed absolution.

Mikey wishes he had been drunk that night. Wishes he couldn't quite remember Frank shaking—not struggling, not even trembling, just shaking—under his hands, beneath his body, against his cock. What he says is, "There were bruises, Frank."

He remembers seeing them, mottling Frank's ink, impeding his playing. Frank had acted like they didn't. The more intense the pain, Mikey knows, the more likely Frank is to pretend it doesn't exist.

"They healed," Frank tells him.

_Where everyone can see_. Mikey knows all about the kinds of destruction that get left beneath the surface, that can't be healed, only pulled out whole. He knows all about just having to hope there's something underneath where those patches have grown. "Yeah."

"We don't see the same person when we look at you."

Mikey almost laughs at that. Almost. "Clearly not."

"I like to think my version is right."

"You're kind of a cocky fucker like that." That's for show, too, though.

"I'm a believer like that."

"You and Gerard," Mikey says, and he can't help that it sounds like a sigh.

"Worse people to hear my name in a sentence with."

Mikey hates that he agrees. "Yeah."

Frank takes Mikey's hand, places it over his bicep so that the palm connects with the new scar. "Makes the big picture more interesting, don't you think? The way it's interrupted?"

"No, Frank—"

"Sort of like a bridge, in a song."

"No."

Frank looks at him, eyes unusual and earnest and so very fucking Frank, who couldn't be bothered to have eyes like anybody fucking else.

"What I did was wrong."

"Yes," Frank lets him have that one. "But you said you were sorry."

"That doesn't take away the damage."

Frank smiles at that, at him. He places a hand over Mikey's and squeezes. "You'd be amazed."

Mikey would.

*

Mikey has been unable to sleep. It's fucked up, because he's tired, exhausted, even. He thought, when he first cleaned up, that it was just being apart from the others. He almost never is. He's pretty sure, though, that he would have been over that by now. The are still a number of options for what's going on, but Mikey knows of a solution that will probably cover most of them. The problem being, he's not sure if he can ask for what he needs.

Frank has been cautious, so utterly cautious, not to take over Mikey's space, take over _Mikey_ , but Mikey needs just a little bit of that, and it's hard, hard to ask for anything when he's all too aware he deserves nothing. Luckily Frank is Frank, and when he's there he can read Mikey well enough to come over and rub at his neck, murmur, "You look wiped."

"Can't sleep."

"Something wrong with your meds?"

Mikey shakes his head.

"Have you talked to your doctor?"

"I'm fine, Frank." And he is, comparatively.

"You're not sleeping. That's not fine, Mikey."

"I'm just a little—"

Franks waits, keeps up his rubbing. Finally he nudges, "A little?"

"Lonely." Mikey can barely expend the breath for the word.

Frank's fingers falter for a second. Then they settle again, warm and knowing. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Okay," Frank says.

*

Mikey sort of wants to stay awake, now that Frank has him in his arms. Mikey makes himself as small as he can—he wants to fit. Frank just works with what he's got and it's enough, he covers Mikey sufficiently, holds him almost easily.

Mikey tries to cling to consciousness, to feel this, feel Frank being here because he wants to be. Mikey tries so hard, but Frank is warm around him, warm and Frank-like and Mikey is nearly dead with exhaustion. In the end there is nothing to do but cave to it, and hope that he wakes up to this, hope he has time to savor in the morning. He wakes up to Frank's fingers kneading lightly at his stomach, to Frank whispering, "Mikey, hey, Mikey."

Mikey makes a sound to let Frank know that he's awake. Sort of.

"It's morning."

Mikey doesn't believe him.

"We have to get up."

Mikey makes a clear sound of disagreement. Frank laughs softly, the breath necessary for the laugh tickling at the back of Mikey's neck. "If you don't get up, I'll have to drag you into the shower and turn the water on cold."

"Meanie," Mikey mumbles.

"Mm, a word. I think you're more awake than you're letting on." The fingers that were kneading change to tickling and Mikey gasps and folds in on himself, but there is no escaping Frank's hand. Mikey giggles and twists and writhes and finally says, "Please."

Frank stops at the sound of "p." He rises up so that his face is above Mikey, who is panting, laid flat on his back. "You awake?"

"Bastard," Mikey says.

"Was that a 'no'?" Frank brandishes his hand.

"Awake!" Mikey says. "Very awake."

Frank laughs. "Good. Then I won't feel like such a rake when I do this."

He lowers his lips to Mikey's.

*

Mikey and Ray are both sleepers. The difference is, Ray can fall asleep anywhere, anytime; Mikey needs some level of quiet and still. Sometimes Frank thinks he broke simply so that he could find that, could justify the time spent with his eyes closed, his mind open. Frank tries to make sure he gets all he needs, works to help him come down off of shows more quickly, to see that the others don't wake him so early.

Frank really doesn't care how or where Mikey gets his sleep, so long as he gets it, so the day that he passes the couch and notices Mikey curled up on top of Gerard, fitting more than should be humanly possible, Frank just keeps walking, heading for the kitchen. Gerard stops him with a simple, "Frank."

Frank doesn't turn to face him. "Gee."

"Sit with me?"

The sun is shining outside, it might be a nice day to sit on the porch. Frank can see out the windows from where he's standing. He goes to the couch. Gerard gently unfolds Mikey a bit, shares him with Frank. Mikey doesn't even mutter, which is incredible, a testament to the ways in which Gerard knows exactly how to work with Mikey, care for him. For a long time Frank thinks they aren't going to talk, that they are going to sit here holding Mikey between them. Then Gerard says, "I don't think he would have come back if not for you."

And Frank realizes that not only are they going to talk, they are going to actually say things. "He's found a way to be with you his entire life. Why wouldn't—"

"We do change as we grow."

"Not like that. Not Mikey."

"Frank, I'm trying to tell you—"

Frank waits.

"I'm trying to say that he sleeps more now. Sleeps and smiles and does all that stuff that for a while was autopilot and insincere and enough to make your skin fucking crawl."

Frank's skin hadn't been the only thing crawling. "He's better."

"I shouldn't have tried to stop you."

Frank looks away. "That was neither of us having our best moment, there."

"I was jealous."

"I was glad you were."

Gerard looks over. Frank pays him the courtesy of meeting his eyes.

"It wasn't the first time I saw you."

"No, but it was one of the more notable times."

Gerard winces, but he doesn't look away. "All the same, I shouldn't have said the things I said. Even without you in the equation, I shouldn't have made Mikey think those things."

"Hindsight," Frank says.

"Killer."

"Gerard," Frank says softly.

"Yes?"

"You wanna sleep?"

Gerard doesn't get tired as often as Mikey, but he's been watching over him hard, and there are tells, things that Frank knows because he knows them, the looseness of Gerard's mouth, the abandon of his fingers. Gerard looks down at Mikey, "I—"

"I'll watch. Both of you. I'll watch."

Gerard says, "Frank."

Frank says, "I know."

Gerard closes his eyes.

*

When he comes back, Mikey is more sparing with his touch than Frank remembers. And sure, memory is subjective, but no, Frank _remembers_. This is Mikey, there isn't a lot of room for error, not so far as Frank's concerned.

When he does touch, though, he makes it count, which makes Frank think that he's waiting for something, looking for something. Frank keeps trying to give it to him, but not being sure of what the object of desire is impedes the process somewhat. So the day that Mikey touches a finger to the metal that graces Frank's lip, swipes the finger over that lip and then back to rest over the ring, and starts to say, "Um, maybe—" Frank says, "Sh." As much as he wants to give Mikey this thing, this thing he's looking for, he thinks that if Mikey has to ask, that will ruin it. For Mikey and for him.

"Sh," Frank says, and slips to his knees and unpacks Mikey from his jeans and his boxers and his overall look. He closes his mouth around the head of Mikey's cock, pressing in with his lips. No tongue, nothing, just his lips.

Mikey says, "Frank, Jesus, Frank."

Frank takes more of him in, caressing his lower lip along the length now, pressing the metal into the skin of Mikey's cock. Mikey takes a breath and Frank hears the sob-quality to it. It's too early on for that, Frank thinks, but then he realizes how long Mikey has been waiting, been trying to say, "I want this," how this, really, is the aftermath, even while he pulls back, dragging his lips along every inch of Mikey's cock that he can manage. He pulls off, licks his lips as much for show as lubrication, and goes right back to what he was doing.

Mikey's actually sobbing now, looking down at him and when Frank chances a glance up, their eyes meet. Mikey's are tired and relieved and so painfully turned on that it looks a little bit like love. Frank tenses his lips one more time and Mikey comes without a sound, nothing but the continuation of tears that aren't the type he hid before, the type he went and told strangers about, but couldn't show them.

Frank slips off of him when he's finished, swallowed, and he's going to carefully rearrange Mikey, allow him some time to do his own rearranging, but Mikey drags him up from his knees, kisses him, and Frank tastes salt. Mikey says, "You're so fucking—"

Frank says, "Okay, it's okay."

Mikey kisses him some more and says, "Yes. Now. Okay."

Feeling stupid and sentimental and the ways he sometimes feels when Mikey is in his arms, next to him, in the same room, whatever, Frank presses his lips to the corner of Mikey's eyes, and kisses—not kisses away—the tears.

*

Mikey can feel the space Gerard leaves. He watches him turn and stalk toward Mikey but he's stopped actually making it there, as though there's a wall Mikey can't see, but Gerard has found the edges to. Mikey thinks the wall is probably standing to his right and fairly Frank-shaped.

Mikey _knows_ he shouldn't say anything about the wall. It will go away. The things between them always do. They are Gerard and Mikey and for all that that statement is self-evident, it is also true. But Mikey isn't used to being the one who caused the wall to occur. It sits unevenly on his shoulders, knocks off his balance and his playing. It grows heavier until he finds himself throwing it off, chucking it in Gerard's direction with a, "I didn't steal him. I don't steal from you. I don't."

Gerard looks at him and after a moment, his face twists. "I know, Mikey."

"You're not acting like it." Mikey's tone isn't accusing. It's worried. Because worried is better than terrified, which is mostly what Mikey is.

Gerard rubs at his temples. "Mikey, I just—"

Mikey waits. Finally, when he's roughly one hundred percent positive that Gerard's not going to finish, he prompts, "Just?"

"Need some space. I just need some space."

Mikey wraps his arms around himself, drawing into himself, making himself as small as he can manage. Gerard looks over and winces. "It's not as if—"

Mikey shakes his head. "I don't know the end to that sentence."

"It's not as if I don't want you happy. Or him." This last squeezes from Gerard's throat.

"I know, Gee. I know, I don't think—"

Gerard closes his eyes tightly. Mikey wants to hold him wants to make it better wants to do anything, anything that will change this. Anything but give up Frank. The truth of that sits bitter in his mouth, vile in his throat, rebellious in his stomach. But it is true. "Okay. Okay. Space."

Gerard nods, his eyes still closed. Mikey leaves the room as silently as he can.

*

"I'm not all porcelain and paper," Mikey says, rising up over Frank in the dark.

"Porcelain and paper," Frank says, because he likes the alliteration and because that's something Mikey's gonna have to explain.

"Imminently breakable or subject to ripping completely apart."

They've just had fairly athletic sex, part of which involved Frank bending Mikey almost completely in half. So it's a bit ironic, but Frank doesn't think this has anything to do with Mikey's body, despite the physical nature of the allusion. "Okay."

"You hold me like I am."

"Mikey—"

"I mean, you, not with your hands. It's not in the way you touch me, it's in the way you say things, the way you sometimes hold back on being happy because maybe that will be too much for me and I won't know how to handle it and I'll take it all back. And the thing is, I know what I did, okay? I'm not Gerard, I remember—"

Frank flinches a little bit at that, and Mikey reaches out without stopping with his words, his hand pressing wide and warm to Frank's stomach. "—what I did, but I came back to the band and I came back to you and that was my choice. I made that choice. It's not like before, when you were trying and I thought, well, I didn't think that I was your choice."

Frank covers Mikey's hand with his own. "What _did_ you think?"

"That you saw I needed something. You were too much like Gerard for Gerard but you weren't too much like Gerard for me and you were smart enough to know that and you're kind of, well, you do things for us that you probably shouldn't and I've known I should say no at times, but I'm about as good at it with you as you are with me and then I said no in the wrong way and... I've forgotten what I was talking about."

Frank laughs a little, rolls Mikey over and kisses him softly. "You wanted me to know I couldn't break you. But I think maybe you were also telling me that I came very close."

"That was before."

"The two aren't quite so...dichotomous in my head."

Mikey says, "It would be nice, though. For it to be like that."

Frank smiles down at him. "No, it's better this way. With all of you here, not just the before parts or the after parts."

"Still seeing me in parts."

"Still seeing the way they all come together in you. I know you're not just going to shatter, but that doesn't mean I don't have a responsibility to be aware of where the lines are. You have that with me, too. I mean, I think you should."

"Your lines aren't so easy to see," Mikey says softly.

"For you?" Frank tilts his head, gives Mikey a look of doubt. "Because if not, I'll show you, I will. But I think you see them."

"Sometimes I try not to look. I forget that they're mine."

Frank nods. "I can remind you."

"Yeah?" Mikey asks, and it's clearly an invitation.

Frank lowers himself onto Mikey. "Yeah."

*

The first show of the tour, Gerard's pretty sure they're going to lose all cred as an emo band within the two hours it takes them to perform. He doesn't care. He doesn't care that none of them can stop grinning like idiots, that their faces are going to hurt along with everything else after this, that the audience isn't getting the rage they paid good money for, he doesn't care. He has Mikey back.

Gerard watches Frank do something that looks suspiciously like _skipping_ —for fuck's sake—at one point, and he can't really blame him. Bob's just lucky he gets to sit down.

Mikey sounds amazing. He's all over the place. Except that he's not, he's there, he's with them, he's just...taking them places Gerard's never known they could go. Or maybe he forgot. Maybe he was too busy paying attention to Mikey, and the places they weren't going. He doesn't regret it.

Afterwards they offer Mikey the first shower but he says, "Nah, that's— I'll wait. I wanna—"

_Feel this a bit longer_ , Gerard finishes for him, but doesn't say. He tells Ray, "All yours," and Ray doesn't wait for him to change his mind.

Gerard heads toward the back of the bus, where he can grab a change of clothes. On the main area table, the plant he gave Mikey after the breakdown is holding its own. Gerard knows that Frank thinks he was warning Mikey off of him, he knows that Mikey even thinks it a little bit, but mostly he was just being metaphorical, the way sometimes not even Mikey gets. Usually Mikey can be counted upon for Gerard-translation, or transliteration, as necessary, but there are moments when they are, well, ships in the night. To be metaphorical.

Gerard heads to the back of the bus because he knows Bob has the sense to follow, to leave Frank and Mikey to themselves for a moment, so that Frank doesn't skip around the bus all night, because really, how annoying would that be? Gerard thinks about what he's wearing to bed, about where the bus will be tomorrow, about what went wrong in the third set, about anything but Frank, and his happiness, and the way Gerard both loves him and hates him for it. The thoughts will twist Gerard until he breaks if he allows them too, and maybe there's a song in that later, maybe, but right now he just wants his band and their delight.

Gerard is, at his very core, human, too.

When he re-emerges Frank is kissing Mikey, sloppy and happy and not particularly sexy, and Gerard knows those weren't really their kind of kisses. Mikey breaks off, the smile in his eyes dampening at Gerard's presence and it's not that Gerard has never caused Mikey to be unhappy or afraid or disappointed before—not that he hasn't even seen the results of that—but it hits him sharper than any knife and harder than any flu bug everytime.

He says, "I was gonna grab a drink. You guys want anything?"

Mikey shakes his head.

Gerard says, "I'll get you waters. You should drink." He moves past them, not hitting them. They have all learned how to make the bus bigger than it really is, how to bend space to their own needs.

He feels Mikey at his back a second later, hears him start to say, "Ger—"

"I can't be the thing that ruins that, Mikey. I can be the thing that inhibits you, the thing that hurts you, I can be all the things I've been until now, but I cannot be the thing that fucks something that real up for you. I just—"

Mikey wraps himself over Gerard, completely impeding any process he was making at opening the water bottle. He is bigger, warmer, better than any blanket, and Gerard says, "Please don't look at me like that. Please."

Mikey murmurs, "I just worry."

Gerard nods. Mikey's a worrier. "Let me, for a bit, okay?"

"He was real for you, too."

"I know. But there's a reason the past tense exists as a tense."

Mikey is silent, heavy on Gerard's back now, but Gerard will not crumble. Mikey whispers, "There's also the part where you and me are real."

"We are," Gerard says, and more than an agreement, it's a promise. When Frank finds them wrapped up like that, comes to tell Gerard it's his turn for the shower, neither of them breaks away upon discovery.

*

They're watching TV when Gerard comes and sits at their feet, one shoulder resting against Mikey's leg, the other against Frank's. Frank reaches out and musses Gerard's hair. Mikey watches. Gerard just sits, either actually watching or pretending to watch the show, which is half done and of which Mikey has completely lost the narrative thread. He really hopes Gerard doesn't ask what's going on. He doesn't.

At some point though, when the music is kind of dramatic, Gerard brings his hand up above his shoulder, clearly waiting for Mikey to take it. Mikey does. Gerard squeezes and then doesn't let go. Mikey wraps the hand with his other one. Gerard says, "I was thinking of wearing something kinda crazy to this year's VMA's."

"Define crazy," Mikey says.

"Not black."

"Yeah, I dunno, Gee," Frank tells him. "You could send thousands of American teenagers into a spiraling whirl of uncertainty."

"There is that risk," Gerard says solemnly, "but I also feel that there are important lessons in that. Lessons about change and the instability of human nature."

"You just found something you wanted to wear that wasn't black, didn't you?" Frank asks.

"Essentially, that's the crux of the issue, yes."

Mikey laughs.

"I need a solid wall of support at my back to do this," Gerard says, leaning back even further into them.

"Oh, well, that's us," Frank says.

"Definitely," Mikey agrees. "Like a rock."

"And about as comfortable," Gerard says.

Mikey sighs, "I can't help it that you got the real-boy genes."

"You make the heroin chic thing work."

"Blow me."

"I would, but there would invariably be pictures, and evidently there are whole hordes of people whose imaginations don't need to be helped."

"Ew, stop touching me," Mikey says, trying to let go of Gerard's hand and squirm away.

Gerard holds tight.

*

Gerard says, "I kinda thought Frank was gonna go feral on that kid."

Mikey nods. The kid in question had been bearing a sign that said, "The Way Brothers Are Fags," which isn't even anything new, but Frank has been a little bit more rabid in his defensiveness of all of them—most of all Mikey—since his return. "Yeah. I depend on his large marshmallow center to negate any tendencies toward violence he might feel."

Gerard makes a face. "They make that shit out of horse's hooves, you realize?"

"You can get vegetarian ones. That's what he's like. Vegetarian marshmallows."

"I would not have dated anything resembling a marshmallow and we both know it."

"Have you seen him any time a human shorter than three feet walks into a Meet 'n Greet? Seriously, Gerard, you can live in denial all you like—"

"And I will."

"—but Frank is pure soft fluffy insides."

"Three Musketeers," Gerard offers.

"Shell's too hard," Mikey counters.

"He's pretty badass when he's on stage."

"So are _you_."

"If I find out you've been comparing me to freaky ass confections that should in no way, shape or form even _exist_ —"

"I like to think of you as molasses. Sweet but slow."

Gerard flips Mikey off. Mikey grins. "Marshmallow."

"Whatever. I guess it's good he's all yours."

Mikey's grin widens, but his eyes take on a hue of worry. Gerard says, "I meant that part. I meant— He makes you smile like that."

"He does."

"So I'll let you have your talk of marshmallows."

"You're really more of a Take Five," Mikey tells him, getting up to go find the Stay-Puffed Man now that he will probably have calmed a bit. "Too many different kinds of brilliance at the center to really explain."

He can feel Gerard's gaze on him as he walks past.

*

Frank is not supposed to see it. In truth, Frank's not really even supposed to be behind this particular stage, but Bob has asked, "Hey, can you go grab Spencer while I help the roadies?" because there have been some problems with Bob's drums—largely, parts have been going missing—so Bob has been assisting in the tear down and load up every night. Not that Spencer couldn't find them on his own, but Frank gets the feeling that communication as to what exactly is going on has been a bit sparse. It's easiest for Frank to just jog on over to their stage and grab him from his boys. Which is saying something.

Panic has just gotten off the stage, and Frank can feel the hum of adrenaline before he's technically even in the structure. He sees it coming around a corner—which he then pulls back behind. He doesn't even know what tips him off, it's just Ross and Urie, still painted up, still panting, standing a little ways apart from each other. There's nothing really going on except that they're _not_ touching, not at all, and while Frank has noticed that they're not as natural about it as most lovers, he has always thought that Ross just didn't like people seeing. But they don't know anybody is watching.

He hears Urie say, "This kinda shit's gonna happen, Ry."

" _Ryan_."

Frank blinks at the insistence in Ross's voice. It's such a little difference.

Urie sighs. "Ryan. People are gonna throw stuff. My Chem's had urine-filled bottles lobbed at them."

"My Chem hasn't had their lead singer knocked into unconsciousness by one of those bottles," Ross hisses. "I hate them."

"My Chem?" Urie sounds validly surprised by that. Frank is a little bit, too.

"The audience, I hate them. I _hate_ them."

"It wasn't personal, the violence. I mean, it was in the sense that we were on the stage when it happened, but they're just stupid kids—"

"Yeah, well, my dad was just a stupid drunk and that was pretty fucking personal."

There's a silence after that and just when Ross opens his mouth, Urie says, "He never knocked you down so hard you couldn't get up, either."

Quietly, so quietly that Frank has to strain to hear, Ross says, "There were times when I didn't want to."

Urie asks, "You going to let me remind you there were reasons?" and stays exactly, precisely where he is. Frank has seen Urie dozens of times at this point and has never once seen him stay still like he does at that moment. It pays off, because after a bit, Ross lifts a hand and lets it fall to Urie's shoulder. Urie is quick to slide his own hand over Ross's.

Frank remembers waiting for Mikey, and it maybe wasn't so literal—Mikey was always more than glad to touch—but at least when Ross touches he's really there. In some ways, Urie is luckier than Frank was. Then again, Urie's probably put in his time by now.

"I still hate them," Ross says, and he sounds tired, exhausted.

"We're done for now. And the next stop's an entirely different place." Urie laughs a bit.

Ross smirks. "Optimist."

"You're my boyfriend, I've gotta have something."

Frank presses his back to the wall, thumps his fist gently against his heart.

*

Frank tosses in bed for a while after picking up Spencer and getting back to the bus. Mikey rubs a hand over his back, asks, "Something wrong?" but not even that helps. He says, "I think I need to write a bit." He feels a little sort of shitty when Mikey nods understandingly and lets him out of the bunk easily. Having a song caught inside you can be the worst kind of hell, but Frank doesn't have any songs, he has the tableau of Ross and Urie. As it turns out, that's almost as bad. Spencer should be canonized.

Frank takes a pad and pen with him but in the end he just keys up his sidekick and messages Urie. "You're a good boyfriend."

Frank doesn't really expect an answer, not until morning, but Urie's evidently keeping rock 'n roll hours, because ten minutes later the answer, "Iero?" comes back.

"Yup," is Frank's ever-so-helpful response.

Urie goes with it. "I have my days."

Frank debates whether to come clean or not. In his experience, truth can often lead to more pain than the clean omission of. But it is admittedly weird, him texting out of the blue. "I came by to get Spencer this evening. I came through the east doorways."

There is a long wait for the response, too long to account for Urie typing it in. "You should have said something."

"I know," Frank admits.

"You know. You know how little privacy there is."

Frank sighs. "I was afraid to interrupt. He seemed like he might not start again if he stopped."

Another too-long wait follows. "Probably not."

"I know what happened at Reading, okay? Walker showed surprising constraint. Ray and Bob would have been out there, beating the kid to death."

"That's why we got asked back to the festivals."

"They asked you back?"

"Ryan was pretty adamantly opposed."

"Well, yeah."

"He got outvoted."

Frank reads the comment three times before responding, "If only that audience knew how hardcore you guys really are, nobody would ever throw anything except sacrificed kittens at you ever again."

"We only take birds."

Frank snickers. "My mistake."

"It's not because he's weak. That he said no."

"No."

"He just doesn't like letting people fuck with what's his."

"Seems like that's one of the things you guys have in common."

Urie's, "Maybe," is slow to come.

Frank tells him the most pertinent thing, the thing he can't get out of his head. "You're patient for him."

Urie's, "He's worth the wait," comes so quickly Frank wonders how he got his fingers to work that fast.

"Yeah. Still. Good boyfriend."

"Sometimes."

"I'm thinking enough times for it to count."

"I'm hoping you're right." Then, "Goodnight, Iero."

"Night."

Frank climbs back into the bunk with no song to show for his efforts, but Mikey nuzzles up to him even in his sleep and Frank doesn't think he'll press too hard about things come morning.

*

Frank stops by Panic's bus in the middle of a soundcheck one day to find Brendon there, which is lucky, since that's whom he was looking for. Brendon answers the door, says, "I thought Spencer was with you guys."

"Oh, we lost him, thought he might have wandered back here."

"Fuck, Iero, he's probably been molested by Fall Out Boy, and now I have to dive into said pit of scum and villainy to rescue our drummer. We never lose _your_ drummer."

"We appreciate that. Can I come in?"

"I thought you were looking for Spencer."

"Nah, he's busy annoying Bob by fucking up his rhythms every time Bob gets going."

Brendon blinks. "Um."

"Really, can I come in?"

Brendon stands back. Frank hops up the stairs. "I'm not interrupting mid-afternoon nookie, am I?"

"Ryan's with the sound techs."

"Perfect."

"Iero—"

"I wanted to apologize for eavesdropping, so I got you this." Frank hands him the box he's been holding.

Brendon looks at it like it might bite. Frank gestures with it. "It's a present."

Brendon takes it from him, lifting the top off. He frowns at the contents for a moment before lifting the jar. "Trying to tell us we need to step up the makeup? Because I have to tell you, I think our look is pretty—"

"It's for Ross. To have a tangible way to make you his. I mean, without it having to be forever and freak him out, because he probably doesn't handle commitment type things well, the ones who don't know for sure that what's theirs is really theirs never do and—"

"You gave me body paint so that my boyfriend and I could get all kinky with each other as a way of apologizing for eavesdropping on our horribly intimate moment?"

"Put like that, it seems sort of creepy, but that might be a result of the guys I hang out with."

"Bob's not creepy."

"I think that's Spencer's influence, truth be told. We try and try, but we just can't convert him."

Brendon looks at the jar appraisingly. "Huh."

"It's fun. Trust me."

"Fun."

"The other things are personal."

Brendon laughs. Frank smiles in recognition.

Brendon says, "If this works, I might accept the apology."

Frank says, "It'll work. And I'd like that."

*

Mikey never comes up to Frank from behind. He might hold him from behind once he's made sure Frank's aware of his presence, but he never approaches from that direction. Frank wouldn't even notice except that Mikey used to. Before the glass and before he pushed back at Frank, told him "no," told him "stop" without thinking to use words first. Frank's pretty sure that night is more the issue than the glass.

The thing is, Frank thinks that maybe, _maybe_ if he ever saw the look Mikey had in his eyes that night again, maybe he'd know enough to be scared. But Frank never sees that look, and he isn't afraid of Mikey. He just isn't.

So Mikey can be mean. If he's honest, that's a quality Frank wishes Mikey had more of. Mikey went and worked, struggled to heal himself. And Frank knows it was for Mikey as much as anyone else, but it was for him as much as it was for Gerard, maybe more than it was for Bob and Ray. Mikey can come at him from the back anytime he wants.

Frank does things to try and make this apparent. He will snuggle up to Mikey from the back, twist in Mikey's arms so that Mikey is at his back, but Mikey chooses to be obtuse in the way that he can only be when he's very much trying. Frank leaves it for a bit, because there are enough obstacles to overcome where he and Mikey are concerned. He maybe leaves it for too long because there's the day he really just wants Mikey to come over and pull Frank into him. Mikey's standing a bit behind him and Frank says, "Could you just, y'know?"

Mikey says, "Um."

Frank rubs a hand over his face and turns slightly so that he's facing Mikey. "Nevermind."

"No, Frank."

"Sometimes I just want to be surprised by you."

Mikey looks confused, and okay, fair enough, because he doesn't live in Frank's brain.

"Just, to be sitting there, and then to have you around me."

"Oh."

Frank nods.

"I just thought—"

"I know what you thought."

Mikey opens his mouth, "I'm—"

"Please don't," Frank says. Mikey's already apologized, and Frank's already forgiven him and Frank just wants the good things now.

Mikey says, softly, "Turn around."

Frank does. Mikey doesn't make him wait.

*

Frank kisses Mikey, slow and lazy and without much intent, but he pulls back and says, "I want you to do something for me."

Mikey puts his forehead to Frank's. "I have a rule about knowing what I'm agreeing to before I agree."

Frank knows all about Mikey's rules. Sometimes they make his existence infinitely harder, but for the most part they protect Mikey, so he doesn't so much mind. "I would like you to fuck me up against the wall."

Frank makes it sound dirty, it _is_ dirty. Frank likes dirty, likes Mikey when he's dirty. Mikey stiffens in his grasp. He doesn't struggle, just stiffens. Frank says, "I _want_ you to."

Mikey says, "I don't know," like he's terrified of disappointing Frank, like Frank might make this an order, like Frank has ever asked for more than Mikey could give.

Frank kisses him again. "Try for me."

"Frank—"

"Try," he says again, "for me."

In the end, Frank thinks Mikey gives in more because he doesn't want to, and that seems somehow appropriate to him, but Frank doesn't care, sometimes things have to be backward, have to have cracks, have to rely on their very instability. He pulls Mikey to the wall, kissing him with every step.

He will do the work, will do everything, will unbutton the oxford Mikey has chosen to wear, button by button. Will push it back to his shoulders, kiss at those shoulders. He will brush his fingers along the ridge of Mikey's jeans, caress at the skin before opening them, before dropping to his knees, kissing Mikey's cock through the barrier of denim, before untying his shoelaces and supporting Mikey as he removes them, one at a time, as he peels back Mikey's socks, kisses at the ankles revealed. He will inch Mikey's jeans down, will hold him up at the hips.

Mikey will say, "Frank, Frank," and pull him up and beg, "Let me," his hands careful, unsure, at the hem of Frank's shirt.

Frank will raise his arms. "Sure, baby."

Mikey is not as careful with Frank, he can't be. His hands shake a little, his arms aren't so foundational as Frank's manage to be. Frank can stand tall, though, can hold himself up for both of them. Frank draws Mikey to his feet, brushes his fingers over Mikey's cheek, rocks forward a little so that their cocks slide along each other. It's not a press, not a rub, just a slide. Mikey gasps, his lips falling open a bit and Frank leans in, kisses him. He pulls Mikey just a bit further in and it's slow, so very slow, languid almost, but he can tell when Mikey becomes prickly under his skin, anxious and eager, and ever more than ready.

Frank settles Mikey with his back to the wall and lets go for long enough to recover the lube from his jeans pocket. Then he places one hand to Mikey's chest, holding him where he is as he applies the lube. Mikey's barely breathing by the time Frank puts his own hands to the wall, says, "Mikey, I want you to touch my back."

Mikey says, "Touch. Right."

His touch is light, so light Frank can barely feel the settling of fingers at his shoulder blade, his hip. Frank says, "A little more, Mikey."

Mikey allows his palms to come into contact with the skin.

"Kiss my neck."

Mikey kisses, licks a little.

"You can bite."

"No," Mikey says.

"All right." Frank has no interest in this being any harder than it is. "Put your arms around my chest. Hold me."

Mikey, who can cling for dear life on any average afternoon, keeps his hold light. Frank doesn't push, but he does roll himself back into Mikey, lets the curve of his ass do some of the work.

"Frank," Mikey whines.

"I want you so fucking much, Mikey," Frank says, lowering his voice but otherwise making it a statement of fact rather than a come on, a proposition.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck," Mikey says, even as he leans back a little to position himself, slide in. Frank pushes back, anything to speed this up a little. Mikey feels so good at his back and maybe there are demons there, just a bit, in the way his cock softens slightly, but then Mikey finds himself somewhere inside Frank and tightens his arms and Frank is so fucking safe that even the Ghost of Mikey Past can't make trouble.

"Not like last time," Mikey growls—Mikey _growls_ —into his ear.

Frank says, "No," instead of, "I told you so." The latter seems lacking in dignity.

One of Mikey's hands falls to Frank's balls, Frank's cock. It teases and coaxes and squeezes even as Mikey concentrates short, even thrusts over Frank's prostate. Frank can barely keep himself from falling into the wall, almost does as he climaxes, as the world condenses to nothing but Mikey's hand, Mikey's chest, Mikey, just Mikey. Just Mikey keeps his arms around Frank's chest, stops him from falling. And then, when the world is maybe a tad wider than it was the moment before, Mikey breathes, "Frank, I have to—" and Frank strengthens his hold on the wall and returns the favor.

As soon as he can, he lowers both of them safely to the floor, and Mikey slips out, lets go so that Frank can twist himself around, can gather Mikey to him, can say, "See? See."

Mikey presses his face to Frank's chest and even though Frank can feel that his eyes are closed, he says, "I see."

*

Frank wakes up with Mikey's mouth on his cock, in the midst of Mikey giving said cock a full-on suck. It's almost too much, first thing in the morning when he's already raring to go from the simple fact of being born male. Frank takes a breath, fists his hands in the sheets and lets Mikey have his way until the pleasure crests. When Mikey is done he rests his chin on Frank's thigh and smiles up at him, clearly self-satisfied. Frank laughs and pulls Mikey up to where he can press his nose to Mikey's, nuzzle him for a moment.

"Eskimo kiss," Mikey says.

"I'm pretty sure that's an old wives' tale."

"A nice one, though."

Frank'll give Mikey that. He reaches down and wraps his hand gently around Mikey's cock. Only just enough that Mikey shifts, wiggles in his grasp, but Frank doesn't give him any more. "Was that just a good morning?"

"Yes," Mikey says.

"Liar," Frank says, and loosens his fingers even more.

"No," Mikey amends, "No."

Frank closes his hand again. Mikey squirms. Frank shakes his head. "Stay still. You get what I give you."

Mikey makes a sound of dissent, but doesn't move.

"What else was that, Mikey?"

"A blowjob."

Frank keeps his hand where it is.

Mikey makes a face. "A 'just in case'."

Frank pulls in one long, smooth stroke. "Tell me more."

"Because maybe you didn't sleep well. After last night."

Frank brings his other hand to cup Mikey's balls. "Why would I not have slept well?"

Mikey pants a little. "It was like before."

"It wasn't," Frank says and squeezes, just this side of too tightly.

"No, but. It. It could have gotten mixed up."

Frank runs a knuckle along the vein on the underside of Mikey's cock before wrapping it up again, pulling a little. "Did it?"

"At first, a little." Mikey's voice is high, breathy.

"Not for me," Frank says, and initiates a series of quick, circular jerks.

"Frank, Frank—"

"Be still, baby."

Mikey moans.

"Was it anything else?"

Mikey levels his eyes at Frank, glossy with waiting pleasure, hard with awareness. "Yes."

Frank grins at that. He won't make Mikey tell him those words, not now. He runs his thumb hard and steady over the head of Mikey's cock, pulls and squeezes and says, "Okay," as Mikey's head flies back, his lips forming the unsaid words without sound.

Frank can't read lips, but he knows what Mikey is saying, knew before he even said it.

Frank murmurs, "Me too," while Mikey is still distracted.

*

The thing about Gerard and Bob and Ray is that it's easy to watch them pull Mikey into their arms, mess with his hair, generally be complete, obnoxious asses in an unseemly, affectionate way. They're in the band, and they do that shit to Frank, too. Not quite as much, because, well, he's Frank and Mikey is Mikey. Still, they do.

Pete is something else entirely.

It's not exactly jealousy. Mikey sleeps with Frank and only Frank. There is nothing simple, has never been anything simple about that statement. Especially now that there's nothing one-off about the sex, nothing substitory, nothing casual. But just because Mikey isn't sleeping with someone doesn't mean he doesn't love them—Mikey loves all sorts of people he's not sleeping with. It is, somewhat discouragingly, something that contributes to Frank's enormous fondness for him. And Mikey loves Pete.

The reassuring thing is that Frank is fairly sure that at this point Mikey loves Pete in the way that someone with an older brother and no younger brother loves the younger brother he never got to have. Pete, to Mikey, is the person who can stand to be saved by him, or at least to let Mikey make the attempt. This is, Frank will admit, more than any of the guys in the band will openly allow. Frank wonders if maybe he should. Then he remembers that he doesn't need saving. Not that way. And Mikey's already taken care of the rest.

The other problem—perhaps the one that annoys him even more—is that Frank sort of loves Pete as well. It's hard not to, he's so, well, in need of love. Valid, I-don't-want-to-jump-you OR tattoo-your-name-across-my-breasts love. Frank, as it turns out, is a sucker for being needed. It makes him want to hit something. Maybe Pete. Probably not.

It makes him want to let Pete have Mikey for an hour, two, three. Because Mikey likes Pete, but he loves Frank. Frank can afford to be generous.

*

Frank doesn't recognize the number on his cell-phone, so he doesn't pick up. He really, really hopes that a fan hasn't gotten hold of his number. He hates having to remember to tell everyone what his new number is. He hates having to remember his new number. He's had to change it four times in the last year, and every time he invariably gives one of the old ones to important people and just—

He hopes it isn't a fan. He checks the message later. It's Pete. Frank programs the number into his phone, just in case he calls back, so that he doesn't have to stress out again. It sounds, from the message, like he'll call back again. The message is, "Frank. Mikey gave me your number. I, uh. I'll call back." So yeah, unless he loses his nerve, Pete'll call back. Frank could call him back, make it easy on him, but Frank is only so nice. At least when it comes to everyone but Mikey.

Pete calls back. It takes him two days, and Frank is starting to wonder, but he does. At three in the morning. Frank looks at the number, stumbles over Mikey, says, "Sh, go back to sleep," and goes to sit on the bus's couch. "Wentz, you play in a band with other guys, right?"

"Sorry, sorry. I just realized what time it was."

"Did you play a show tonight?" Frank can hear it in his voice, the soft hoarseness, the jittery, adrenaline-based shake.

"Yeah, which, right. Probably should have realized, huh?"

Frank doesn't say anything. Pete breathes out and Frank knows he's going to be passed out on whatever surface is nearest soon. "Is Stump there?"

"He’s asleep."

Yeah, he would be. "Wake him up, and make him put you to bed."

"It's not like that."

"No, because Stump is pretty smart."

Pete is quiet at that, which of course, _of course_ dampens Frank's _perfectly reasonable_ ire. Frank makes a face. "What did you need?"

Pete must hear the capitulation because he says, "I'm not trying anything. Not with Mikey."

"Well, that's good, because I'm not sure how much failure a man can take."

"The thing is, Mikey talks about you a lot, and I've met you, so I know you're not an asshole. But here you are being one, so I thought maybe if I said I just sometimes need someone who doesn't see me at my best and my worst to listen and hear me, I thought if I said that to you maybe you wouldn't hate me. I don't really like it. Being hated. Particularly not by Mikey's boy."

The description calms something in Frank that it shouldn't. "I don't hate you."

"You don't like me either."

"For fuck's sake, you're a celebrity. Universal popularity is at best a fucked up goal."

"Not universal. He's one of my closest friends. And you're just about the closest thing to a world that he's ever going to have. I mean, not counting the music."

Frank doesn't know how not to count the music, but he knows what Pete means. "If I tell you okay, will you go to sleep?"

"I... Would you mean it?"

"I'm not really a liar. Not when I don't have to be."

"Yeah. I bet not."

"Next time you come 'round, I'll take you out for coffee."

"Good coffee? Because I love Mikey, but when he says that, he means the Seven-Eleven stuff. Which has cream in it. Among other things."

"I'll spring for Dunkin' Donuts, black, if we're in a town that supports it."

"Careful, I might start to think you like me."

"Go to sleep."

"Mm. Iero?"

"Don't."

"He loves you."

Frank hangs up. He'll call back in a few days.

*

Mikey says, "We gotta remember not to nod when they ask 'regular'."

Frank nods. It's not so much that he forgets what regular means as that it has a different meaning in certain parts of the northeast, which throws him, because it is often hard to remember where he is at any given time, unless it's New Jersey. He's got that one pretty down.

"Why?" Pete asks.

Mikey says, "Because last time I ordered you chai you yelled at me." Mikey had sort of sucked at being vegan. He tried not to, he just got to thinking about other things, and the habit never exactly managed to become an actual habit. On the upside, he had generally been able to remember not to eat meat.

"What does chai have to do with anything?" Pete looks like he thinks he might have sleep-dep craziness.

Frank lets him think this for a moment before saying, "Regular up here means with cream and sugar."

"What kind of a system is that?"

Frank shrugs. "You have people go get you your coffee, don't you?"

"I didn't used to," Pete says, and his fingers pick at the hem of his jeans and Frank thinks maybe he shouldn't have been so accusatory. "Just, then Joe went to go get himself some beans, so we could, you know, make coffee and one of the employees recognized him and he was at the shop for two hours signing autographs. And it feels stupid to go with the bodyguards, who would keep that from happening, so yeah. Mostly we just write down what we want."

"Your problem is that you like Starbucks," Mikey says.

Pete nods sadly.

"Anti-establishment of you," Frank says, and lets Mikey get away with being a total hypocrite. Mikey _loves_ Starbucks.

"We all have our weaknesses," Pete tells him, and looks from Frank to Mikey. Frank will give him that.

Undermining Mikey's brand-determinism, the girl at the Dunkin' Donuts does recognize them. Frank can tell by her smile, and the fact that she tries to give them the coffee for free. Frank pays for the coffee, subtly signs the nearest napkin, makes the other two add their names and says, "We just wanna hang for an hour or so. You think?"

She tilts her head at a corner table. "Best bet. And holy shit, thanks, y'know?" It's his name on that napkin, so no, Frank can't say he knows entirely, but he remembers the way he felt the first time he met Greg Ginn at an after-party, and hence has some idea.

Pete scoots in first and Mikey sits down next to him. Frank takes the other side, his knees slipping between Mikey's long, sprawled legs. If they're photographed, Ray will make fun of them, Bob will roll his eyes and Gerard will say, "Jesus wept," but there won't be much more of a commotion than that. Besides, Pete is curled up in the booth like a bloody monkey and Frank thinks that will draw the camera's attention more than anything else.

Mikey puts a hand to Pete's lower back for a second and raises an eyebrow. "Not your first cup of the day?"

Pete shrugs, and takes a larger sip than is probably pertinent, given the temperature of the beverage. He winces. Frank stands and walks over to the counter. "Hey, uh. Could I get a cup of ice?"

Fangirl nods. "Sure."

The cup she gives him is larger than necessary, but Frank just smiles and takes it. He slides back into the booth, takes one of Pete's hands from his coffee cup, places it palm up and deposits two pieces of ice inside. "Suck."

Pete looks at the ice like it might grow wings and fly for a second. Then he follows instructions. Mikey looks at Frank and Frank thinks, "Yeah, okay, the complete mess thing is endearing in ways it shouldn't be." Also, "Damn you, Way," because Mikey is his boyfriend, and he's allowed to curse him for getting Frank involved with people he's better off staying far away from.

"Thanks," Pete says, with a mouth full of ice.

"Drink slowly," Frank tells him.

"Yeah." He swallows. "Just kind of tired, lately."

"You might wanna try sleeping, for that," Mikey says softly, with an awareness that only someone who had high-level insomnia for all four years of high school can infuse into such a statement.

Pete nods. "Yeah. Yeah."

Frank wonders what exactly keeps Pete up at night, if it's the resounding screams of the crowds and the expectation that comes with it, or the energy of the road that never lets up, or something else entirely. Maybe it's none of these. Whatever it is, Mikey's advice is correct, even if its practical purposes are nil.

"I'm trying," Pete says into the silence that has followed his agreement, and it sounds to Frank like the statement applies to a hell of a lot more than anything that's been said in this conversation.

He says, "You got a show tonight?"

Pete shakes his head. "Night off."

That's the next night for them, which is probably when Fall Out Boy plays. "Why don't you come back to our hotel, when you're done doing what you're gonna do?"

Mikey says, "Or before," and it sounds more like a statement than a request.

Pete says, "I don't kn—"

One of Mikey's hands closes around Pete's nearest forearm in what has to be a pretty painful hold. Not tight enough to leave bruises, but almost. Frank's glad not to watch him squeeze just that extra bit. Pete is not Mikey's to be marked. And Mikey is not a mean person, not like that.

"Yeah, all right," Pete agrees.

Later, Frank will tell Mikey that tomorrow night is all theirs, but he think Mikey knows. For the moment he watches Pete sip his coffee more slowly, like he might actually be up to tasting it and doesn't feel as annoyed as he thinks he probably should.

*

Mikey's strumming with adrenaline, which would normally be fine, except that Pete is waiting for them when they get back and Frank doesn't have time to take care of things the way he would like to. Also, Frank's got his own excess of energy and he doesn't want to end up taking that out on Pete, who has his fingers pressed to the window so firmly Frank hopes he won't fall straight through.

Mikey says, "We're gonna take a shower," and Frank thinks Mikey's hot when he's smart like that. He sucks him off in the shower to prove this point. Mikey pulls him up and turns him around, pushing him into the wall and jerking him off. It's rough—very near to too rough, but not quite, just on the edge. By the time they've finished the water is running cold and they're both shaking, but at least it's not from a show high anymore.

Frank dries Mikey off and kisses him a little, gentle and slow and says, "Movies and popcorn?"

"Mostly he just needs to be touched by people who don't want to touch him."

Frank thinks the statement through. Mikey smiles. "Touch him like that."

"Yeah, I got there."

Mikey kisses him back at that, gentle but not as slow.

"Don't tempt me," Frank growls, because he's perfectly willing to stay in this bathroom all night, Pete Wentz or no. Mikey pulls a t-shirt and pajama bottoms on and pads out to the room.

Pete says, "Look, I should—"

"Shut up," Frank says, following Mikey out, because Pete's here, and Frank has come, so he might as well stay. He takes one of Pete's hands from the glass—it's freezing—and pulls him along. "We're about to plumb the great depths of the pay-per-view."

"Porn?" Pete asks, in a voice that is not quite as hopeful as it is probably meant to be.

"No," Mikey says, because he doesn't mind porn, but mostly he thinks it's kind of pedestrian.

Frank pushes Pete onto the couch and Pete flounders for a moment until Mikey pulls him over him like a blanket. Frank settles in on his other side, sprawling so that his fingers brush Mikey's stomach. Mikey lays a hand over Frank's. They settle on _Little Miss Sunshine_ , which they have now seen at least three times, but Mikey likes the older brother. Frank thinks the character reminds him of Gerard, the way he just picks up after complete disaster and walks back up the hill for his younger sister.

Mikey's not a beauty queen, either. Frank wouldn't want him to be.

Pete has seen it too, but he still laughs, more as the movie goes on, and at some point, Frank slips the hand that's not on Mikey's stomach under the waistline of Pete's jeans and lets his fingers skim the skin of his hip. Pete burrows deeper into Mikey, which presses him further into Frank's hand. Mikey says, "Hey," and holds tighter, and doesn't move his eyes from the screen.

Mikey and Pete both fall asleep on the couch and Frank would let them stay, only Pete has a show that night, and Mikey's just gotten off the stage and they all need quality rest, so he wakes them both enough to loop their arms over his shoulders and have them all stumble to the bed. Pete mumbles, "I really should go."

Frank says, "I think that ship has sailed," and takes Pete's shoes off for him.

*

Mikey knows that sometimes, the empirical function of older brothers is, in fact, to be assholes. This does not, so much, ease his mind. To yell at Gerard would be pointless. Gerard would nod understandingly and say, "Yeah, you're right, sorry," in that patronizing way that he managed when Mikey wasn't overreacting but Gerard wanted him to think that he was, and go right on doing as he would. Instead, Mikey says, "It's not like you couldn't fucking say no," to Frank.

Frank cocks one eyebrow and says, mildly, "It's not like you couldn't have fucking told me it bothered you before now."

Mikey has so many thoughts in response to that assertion that in the same way black is simply the bombardment of too much color all in one place, his mind goes blank. What he manages, which is not—to say the least—really the thrust of the issue, is, "He's my brother."

Luckily, Frank is smart. Smart in many ways, but fully, deeply brilliant at knowing people. Knowing Mikey. "And the leader of the band and the one girls throw their shirts at and photographers offer blowjobs to and my ex."

Mikey hopes his strangled breaths are enough. Frank isn't going to get anything else out of him. Not just now.

"Do you want me to tell you that I don't love him?"

Mikey shakes his head. He doesn't. It's not true. And if it were, Mikey wouldn't want it to be. He's never understood people who didn't love Gerard. He doesn't want to understand them. Gerard is, well, his big brother. And while that is currently the problem, it doesn't negate his Mikey's adoration of him, devotion to him.

"Then how about I tell you that when he kisses me, it tastes like memories, the kind that you look at fondly occasionally, but can still remember, word for word, line for line, why you left behind?"

Mikey's breathing becomes less strained but he doesn’t shift his stance, doesn’t do anything that wholly lets Frank off the hook. Frank, to his credit, stays where he is as well. He says, "How about I tell you that when he kisses me, I am mostly thinking about where my hands are on my guitar and how, later, my hands will be on you? Playing _you_. That he is soft behind me, and that was always good, always _great_ but it's not the sharpness, the definition of you, and when I want now, that is what I want."

Mikey says, "If he were to want you back—"

"He wouldn't do that to you."

Mikey knows. That's not the point. "If he _were_ —"

"He's Gerard, Mikey. He's talented in that smooth, cross-disciplinary way that everybody in the world wishes they were, he's got a smile that makes you think he's smiling wholly for you, he listens like all he can hear is your voice, when in fact he can hear every tinkle and twang in the background.

"He’s Gerard and fuck if that isn't a driving argument, but he has never once looked at me like I was the boy to take home, he's never once said 'please' in a way that made me believe I was the only person who could draw it from him, he has never once run his hands up the neck of a guitar in a way that made me want to take them into me whole.

"You spend your life thinking that you're the second half, the lesser half, that somehow, when your parents made Gerard you were the afterthought, and maybe there was a time when you were just Mikey to me, but it was never, _never_ in an afterthought fashion, and now he is just Gerard.

"How about I tell you that when he kisses me, all I can think is 'you do not taste like Mikey'?"

Mikey says softly, "Please."

"Fuck," Frank says, and then Mikey's face is between his palms, his fingers digging gently—how does he manage that?—into Mikey's temple, "G-d, fuck."

Frank kisses him, and Mikey isn't sure, would have no way of knowing, but he doesn't think Frank tastes like Gerard.

*

When Frank emerges from the shower Mikey is on the hotel couch, also clean and naked, watching "Roman Holiday," which isn't fair, because he knows black and white turns Frank on. Frank asks, "Think you're gonna get laid, huh?"

Mikey tips his head over the back of the couch so that he's looking at Frank upside down. "There's popcorn in the mini-bar."

Frank goes and pops it. He brings it to the couch and makes Mikey hold the bag just to prove he isn't totally whipped. Mikey takes it with a knowing smile, the dickhead. Frank is three-fourths too ready just watching the clean lines of Rome and Audrey Hepburn stand stark against each other, listening to Mikey's fingers rustle through the bag. When Mikey takes his hand and licks a swath of not-really-butter and salt right from his palm, Frank growls, "Spoiled fucking _princess_ ," throws the mostly empty popcorn bag aside and plows his hand into Mikey's hair, bringing his mouth down to where Frank's is. Frank's lips are a little chapped and the salt from Mikey's lips, Mikey's tongue, burns. He presses in, up, further. He grabs at Mikey's legs, rearranges until Mikey is straddling him and says, "Mikey, did you—"

Mikey pulls the lube from under one of the cushions, and Frank says, "Yeah, that's my little genius."

He slicks up and slides in and Mikey lets gravity help them out. He says, "Don't confuse me with him during sex."

Frank says, "I don't confuse the two of you when I'm asleep." Then, "Ride me."

He stays perfectly still as he watches Mikey do all the work, watches him rise and fall and moan and look at Frank a little desperately. When Mikey opens his mouth Frank really expects a, "Frank, Jesus, touch me," but Mikey just says, "Fuck you're so fucking gorgeous." He repeats it, a whisper, an echo, and then he drives himself down particularly hard and says, "You're _mine_." It would be possessive, but it's too disbelieving to be anything other than completely incredulous.

Frank doesn't put a finger on Mikey's cock, because it's not enough, he's barely come when he's pulling Mikey off of him, pushing him onto his back, onto the carpeting, swallowing his balls whole. He tastes them, savors them until Mikey is shaking, whimpering, but not pleading under him, and then he takes just the head in his mouth and Mikey can't hold on any longer.

Frank pulls Mikey up and throws them both back into the shower, as they're more lube and come and popcorn detritus than human at this point. Mikey smiles at him, an open smile and Frank says, "I've always been yours. Even when I didn't know it."

"I worry."

"I know."

"No." Mikey disappears under the spray for a moment. "Not that you want something else. I mean, that too, but. This worry. This worry is that you deserved Gerard."

"Gerard is—"

"Gorgeous and charismatic and brilliant," Mikey says, and he looks at Frank, like maybe he's talking to him. About him.

"You're biased," Frank tells him.

"Doesn't make me not right."

"Then how come you get to say that to me when I tell you pretty much anything nice?"

"Because I'm a Way," Mikey tells him, his tone utterly confident of his logic. Frank has to give it to him, in this band, it's a valid point. He kisses Mikey, reaching past him to turn off the water. They kiss, shivering, for a bit before Frank grabs a towel, tousles Mikey's hair, whispers, "That you are, babe," while Mikey's being distracted by the rubdown.

At a normal decibel he says, "We gotta stop throwing food in hotel rooms. My Chem's gonna get a bad name for themselves."

"We'll tell everyone it was Gerard."

Frank laughs. Poor Gerard.

*

Frank looks at the number on his screen before hitting, "talk." "Heya Spencer."

"Hi. How are you?"

"Other than being weirded out by your sudden conversion to polite Stepford child?"

"Fine, is Way there with you?"

"Which one?"

"The one generally attached to your dick."

"That's more like it."

Mikey leans in and says, "Hey you."

"We're going to play a little word association game."

"I like those," Frank says.

"Bonus," Spencer says. "Pete Wentz, go."

"Fuck," Frank says. Then, "Wait, that wasn't my answer."

"Too late," Spencer tells him.

"No, I totally get a do over."

"For what reason?"

Frank looks at Mikey. Mikey says, "You didn't give us a count of three."

Frank kisses Mikey. Spencer sighs. "Fine. One, two, three, Pete Wentz."

"Soul," Mikey says.

"Hidden," is Frank's contribution.

"Were those two in relation to each other?"

"No, but they sort of worked that way," Mikey says.

"Let's say, hypothetically, that one of my guys—"

"One of the available ones, or unavailable ones?" Frank interrupts.

"Available."

"That sort of narrows the playing field," Frank says.

"Anyway, let's say that said available bandmate was possibly doing something—"

"What sort of something?" Mikey asks.

"Is that prurient?"

"No," Frank and Mikey reply together.

"I'm not sure."

"Does it involve mouths, dicks or hands?" Mikey asks.

"I...don't think so," Spencer says slowly.

Frank and Mikey share a look. Frank finally says, "Jon's a pretty capable guy."

"Very," Spencer says.

Mikey says, "That's probably about ninety seven percent of what Pete needs."

"And the other three percent?"

Mikey admits, "If I knew that, I probably wouldn't be with Frank."

"Well, there was tragedy averted."

Frank makes a face at the phone but doesn't say anything, because he thinks Spencer is actually being somewhat serious.

"You don't think he'll bother my other guys?" Spencer asks.

"He's really not evil," Frank reassures him. "Just has a couple of screws misplaced. Jon'll find'em."

"I'm taking you at your word here, Iero." Spencer sounds a little too full of bravado, like he does when he's nervous as hell.

"I know, Spence. I know."

"And don't think I won't sic Bob on you if Pete Wentz turns out to be a total fucking Yoko Ono."

"Don't be all up on Yoko," Mikey says quietly. "It's kind of misogynistic, and uncool."

The bizarre tangent diffuses the situation, the way most of Mikey's do. Frank has the coolest boyfriend ever. He smiles, wide and unrestrained, to show him what he's thinking. Mikey grins back, asks, "Spencer?"

"I'm trusting you people with my band," Spencer mutters. He might as well say "life" at the end of that sentence.

"We know," Frank says.

"We really do," Mikey repeats.

"Yeah," Spencer says. "I know."

*

Frank likes to put his fingers in Mikey's mouth. He likes being settled deep inside Mikey, pushing ever further in, slipping them over Mikey's tongue and hissing, "Suck, baby."

Mikey will allow himself to suck, will suck with fervor, with technique. Mikey will not allow himself to bite, not even upon being given permission, not even upon being asked. Frank would beg if he thought it would make any difference, but Mikey's rules are Mikey's rules, despite the fact that Mikey has never once hurt Frank in a way that Frank couldn't reconcile within himself, couldn't recover from. Mikey has maybe hurt himself in those ways, Frank being merely incidental.

It's not exactly that Frank does not respect Mikey's rules. Mikey's rules keep the pieces of Mikey in close enough proximity that Mikey can pretend it is the same thing as them holding together. It's that Frank thinks rules are more mutable than Mikey tends to see them as. Which is why he says—one of those times when Mikey has his tongue to the pads of Frank's fingertips—"The tattoos hurt."

Mikey's tongue stutters without sound.

"They hurt. The needle pushing ink into my skin, sometimes right next to the nerve. How could it not hurt, Mikey?"

Mikey's back has gone stiff, fragile against Frank's chest. The only thing Frank will allow to hit Mikey from an unforeseen direction is himself.

"I _like_ that part, like what I am doing for myself, making part of myself. I like the thought of you doing that to me. Not, I mean, not necessarily needles and ink, just— You're not... There's bad stuff in you, Mikey, not in a way that makes you bad, just bad stuff. It wouldn't make sense if everything between us was nice. Nothing is all nice." Frank doesn’t think he'd want it if it was. He takes his fingers from Mikey's mouth to let him know that he can talk if he has something to say.

Mikey says, "What I did wasn't even bad, Frank. It was...evil."

"No," Frank says.

"Frank," Mikey says. "I _hurt_ you, and I did it with intent."

"In reparation for another hurt."

"One that wasn't intended."

"So? Everyone was making mistakes."

"It's a matter of degree."

"It's really not. And even if it were, I was stripping away what little was left of you, you were throwing me against walls. I win. Do you want me to stop being with you as some sort of arbitrary defining line of what's acceptable now? Because it is arbitrary, Mikey, it fucking is."

"It's my reminder, it's a point of what I can and can't—"

"There is no can and can't," Frank interrupts, driving himself deeper into Mikey.

Mikey arches up. "There should be."

"Should there be?" Frank pulls off a little.

"Yes," Mikey hisses as Frank brushes over his prostate.

"Between you and me?" Frank sinks back in.

"I— Fuck Frank, fuck." Mikey whimpers. "I hurt you."

"Yes. But now I'm just asking you to hold on."

"With my _teeth_?"

Frank settles again, stills, making this last as long as he can. "If need be."

"And if not?"

Frank rocks a little bit. "You really don't think we need to hold to each other with everything we have?"

Mikey meets him halfway. "If it hurts each other?"

"Does it really? Is the hurt anything other than a side-effect? Part of the fun?"

"It was," Mikey says.

"I asked if it _is_." Frank makes his thrust a little rough. Mikey grunts.

"Is it?"

"No, no," Mikey pants.

Frank slips his fingers back into Mikey's mouth. "Bite."

Mikey's teeth are dull, strong.

*

"Sometimes," Mikey says philosophically, "my brother is an asshole."

Given that Mikey has been molested in front of several hundred people by said brother, Frank thinks that's probably going lightly on Gerard. He bites his lip, because he's already laughed once at Mikey tonight—when there were people watching—and it seems like maybe it's time to be a supportive boyfriend. "Mm."

"So," Mikey tells him slowly, "are you."

Yup, caught.

"Because I think I should get to taunt the world with you, even though I know I can't?" Frank makes the question light, his tone unconcerned.

"I really, really hope that wasn't Gerard's motive there. Because that's kinda creepy."

Well, okay. "No, he just likes giving you shit. I was explaining why I felt little to no need to come to your rescue."

Mikey glares. "Right, next time I'll let down my hair, yeah? That'll be our cue."

"I don't know that long hair would work for you," Frank muses, mostly just to needle Mikey some more.

"You liked it on Gerard."

Frank stills at that. "Are you actually upset?"

Mikey holds himself tight for a moment, like a cat in the moment before pouncing. Then his shoulders drop. "Just... I'm not..." he tugs his shirt over his head and throws it to the side and looks straight at Frank. "This is yours. They can have the music and the lyrics and sometimes even me when I get to talking because it's the right question or the right moment or the right whatever. But the things that are yours are yours and there has to be a line, somewhere."

Frank breaths in for a long moment. "'Taunt,' Mikey."

"Yeah, but—"

"No. They can have a look. That's all."

"It's not—"

Frank pulls Mikey to him, sinks his teeth into Mikey's ear lobe and does not let up, not even at Mikey's soft whimper. Mikey doesn't say, "stop," and they know each other's language. Finally, Frank loosens his hold, drags his mouth to the hollow of Mikey's ear and growls, "That. Is. All."

Mikey breaths, "All."

*

Frank slips out of their bunk—it's his, really, but he doesn't think in those terms anymore and he doesn't think anyone else in the band does either—late into the night. Gerard's up. Frank knows he will be. Frank gets them both waters from the fridge and nudges in next to Gerard, because he doesn't want to have this conversation without touching him. Gerard takes the bottle with a murmured, "Thanks."

"You have to know what I'm going to say here."

"He's my little brother, Frank."

"He's also a part of your band, so stop fucking with him, okay? I know it's not— None of us doubts your claim or who you are to him or any of that. But next thing you know he's going to be learning the drums just so he can hide behind the kit. Then we've got territory wars and nothing good has _ever_ come of that."

Gerard takes a sip of water. "I thought I remembered how well you do 'dire', but no, you're better than I thought."

Frank snickers. "Asshole."

Gerard says, "Look, you're you, and that's the only reason we're even here talking because I would've told anybody else in the world, even the other two, that he's my brother and there was no space in between that. Except you are the space in between that, sort of, which I hate sometimes but is probably even more screwed up from where you are."

"I don't want—"

"Let him hide for a bit, Frank. He'll come back up, you know he will."

"I'm just saying—"

"I know, that I overshadow him, I scare him, I—"

"Stop it."

"I can, sometimes. I can even mean to. Maybe I'm waiting for the day when he pushes back. Undoes _my_ hoodie."

"Are you?" Frank asks, even as he remembers the way Gerard practically carried Mikey to Stacy's, remembers the way Gerard was there from the first day Mikey would let him come, and every day after. "Nevermind."

"He's my baby brother. And sometimes protection isn't as straightforward as everybody acts like it is. You know that." The last part sounds accusatory, a bit hurt.

Frank presses his leg into Gerard's, leans his head on Gerard's shoulder. Gerard reaches up to ruffle his hair. "But I like that you still try to make it that way."

Frank laughs at that, a tiny huff of not-exactly-amusement. Mostly it's because he believes Gerard.

*

Gerard, for all his anger and bleakness and hope and raw humanity, was pretty straightforward when it came to sex. No pun intended.

Not that Gerard’s way didn’t do it for Frank. It did, it did all kinds of things. And at first, he has trouble reconciling that difference, the way Mikey can be so utterly shameless, so gorgeously filthy from his toes on up. Every time Frank gets to thinking they've gone as far as they're going to go, Mikey proves him wrong.

Frank never, ever minds being proven wrong yet again. Especially not the night he almost passes Mikey on his way from the dressing room to the quiet room. The halls are dark because the backstage area of this particular stadium is designed for crap.

Mikey's not dressed for the show. Oh, he has his eyeliner on, and his hair teased out a bit and something that shines just so on his lips. His jeans are pulled down lower than normal and his t-shirt is hiked up so that his hipbones shine pale and lean in the bare light of the hallway. Frank stops, does a double-take, starts to say, "What are you—" when Mikey says, "I know, I know I'm not supposed to be back here," voice all hesitant and soft.

Frank is about to say, "Mikey, what the hell?" Then it hits him. "No, and if you don't get out, I'm going to have to find our security."

"Please," not-Mikey says. "Please, I just wanna see the show so bad."

Frank steps toward him a bit. "How bad?"

"I'll do anything. Please."

"Anything?"

Mikey nods, eyes large and earnest behind the dark markings of paint and shadow.

"On your knees," Frank says, soft and as apathetic as he can manage. Mikey sinks there, nowhere near as graceful as he usually is, clumsy and unsure and _young_. Frank is so going to hell. It's going to be an awesome ride.

Frank says, "Hands behind your back. Don't move them. Move them, and no tickets."

Mikey clasps one hand over the other wrist. Tight. Frank says, "Undo my pants."

Mikey looks up at him, "But—"

Frank just raises an eyebrow. Mikey worries at his lip a bit but then leans in, tugs at the clasp of Frank's pants. It unhooks with time and effort and Mikey works at the zipper the same way. Frank has to close his eyes momentarily, really, really not wanting to come just from this. He helps Mikey out a little, taking his dick out of his boxers. "Suck me, whore."

Mikey perhaps can't help the slightly ironic smile that breaks from his lips at that, but he suppresses it by opening his mouth and following the order. Frank buries his hands in Mikey's hair—hairdressing is going to be _pissed_ and Frank really, really doesn't give a shit—and pulls him onto his cock. It's not gentle and Mikey gags, chokes a little bit. Frank just holds on until he settles. Then he fucks Mikey's face with short, deep strokes and Mikey opens up to him, takes it, lets him control everything.

Frank sort of wants to come on Mikey's face, but makeup actually will _kill_ him if Mikey shows up completely scrubbed clean. Instead he holds Mikey tight to his pelvis and comes so deep in Mikey's throat he doubts Mikey even much feels it.

He lets Mikey go and while Mikey's busy panting, busy wiping his lips with the back of his arm and staring up at Frank, still in character—two parts awe, one part unseeing desire—Frank gets down on his knees and pushes his hand into Mikey's pants, not even bothering to unzip them. It's too tight a fit and Mikey whimpers a bit and Frank growls, "You'd best come. If you want those tickets you'd best—" he can't even finish before he feels the thick, wet heat of Mikey's orgasm in his palm, over his fingers.

Frank silently thanks Mikey for not being in costume. Wardrobe's the only department that's not going to be putting a contract out on their lives. When Mikey can speak again he says, "I wasn't sure you'd go with it."

Frank asks, "I didn't—"

"Sometimes I like it not very sweet," Mikey says.

"I know."

"Hm. It doesn't generally hurt to remind you."

"No," Frank says. It doesn't. He sort of likes to spoil Mikey. Mikey could use some spoiling.

Mikey kisses him, his lips too swollen. "Good thing it's hard for the kids to actually see much from where they are."

Frank laughs. "No kidding."

"Did I earn my tickets?"

"I've got a spot for you right on stage."

*

Frank spends all sixty-three hours of the "I Don't Love You," shoot hard.

It's bad enough that both Mikey and Gerard—and, well, Ray and Bob, whom Frank loves, but does not really want to fuck—are painted over with white facepaint, black lipstick and eye makeup accentuating the places that will need to pop in the video. The theory of it, the 3D representation of what is meant to be untouchable is so fucking hot that Frank has to, _has_ to wank carefully, quietly in the studio bathroom every once in awhile. Once it is transformed, and the extent of his kink is fulfilled, Frank is going to be so screwed.

They're too tired to fuck after the first day of shooting, but Mikey says, "If you don't stop taking yourself to the bathroom, I might start getting jealous."

Frank makes no promises.

Gerard makes them all sit down and watch the final cut together. Frank sort of hates Gerard momentarily, because it's not as though Gerard somehow missed this kink. But hey, at least Gerard doesn't decide it needs to be saved as a surprise for their appearance on TRL, because Frank has bad, bad luck with TRL and being publicly humiliated. Mikey, luckily, is an amazing boyfriend, who, shortly after the video, drapes himself over Gerard and whispers, "I'm going to go take him now, while he probably thinks about you."

Gerard's eyes aren't haunted by the comment the way they would have been before JC. They are quiet, and his smile is unsure, but Frank hands Gerard his sidekick and says, "Email it to your boyfriend," and Gerard laughs. "I don't think it's going to garner the same response."

Frank shrugs, "Never know."

Mikey takes him to the bathroom, because no way are they driving all the way home and there's too much daylight to be stopping on the side of the road somewhere. He pushes Frank's hips into the sink basin, Frank's hands coming up to the mirror just so that he has a purchase on something. There will smudged hand prints when Mikey allows him to take them away. Mikey puts his hand to the button of Frank's jeans and says, "Tell me it's not him you see."

Frank looks in the mirror, at Mikey's face behind him. "Was he in the video?"

Mikey rips down Frank’s jeans and his own and then he's rubbing himself against Frank, cock sliding against the line of Frank's ass, up and down. Frank groans and crushes himself to the porcelain of the sink, but Mikey grabs his stomach, pulls him back to where he can wrap his hand around Frank's dick, squeeze and pull and hold, and ask, "Isn't that better than your hand?"

"Mikey, so fucking beautiful, with your skin, your white skin and how sharp, so fucking sharp, all lines, oh Mikey, Mikey."

Mikey laughs into his ear. "Yeah, you were pretty fucking hot yourself. You and all your ink, black on white on black."

Mikey pulls Frank back, presses in with particular force on one stroke and comes all over his ass. Frank imagines the color contrast of that too, watches Mikey's eyelids flutter a little, revealing only peaks of his dark, obscure eyes, and screams as he comes.

*

Mikey's shaking, vibrating under his skin like he does before a show and Frank knows it's fine, just energy, too much caffeine, not enough sleep, bus life and being a guy rolled into one, but now when he sees it, sometimes he sees Mikey shaking—shaky—in other ways and he has to think, "No. No, he fixed that."

Some nights it works and some nights it's not enough, won't be enough until he can put his hands to Mikey's shoulders and press just the tiniest bit. Until he can feel him whole underneath his grip. Mikey sometimes smiles at him, sometimes scowls, sometimes notches his shoulders into the hold and settles slightly. Depends on the night.

Frank says, "Gonna be a good show tonight," and he thinks it is. They're in the midwest (Chicago? Milwaukee?) where the audiences are always easier, less impressed by themselves, more impressed by the band.

Mikey makes a noise of acknowledgement, still jittery in his hands. Frank has to fight not to tighten his hold. He asks, "How's the cold?"

"The Cold" is a perpetual state of being for almost all of them. One of them will pick it up from who only knows where, and living in each other's clothes—literally, most days—none of the others have any defense against it. Mikey is the latest victim, but Frank is relatively certain it was Gerard who brought it on board this time. Frank has resigned himself to the fact that he's next.

Mikey sniffles slightly. "Almost done."

Frank lets one hand slide to the back of Mikey's neck, runs a finger along the vertebrae. Mikey's not too skinny, but he was, for a bit, and Frank likes to reassure himself that there is regeneration happening. "Maybe you should sleep, afterward."

Before the breakdown, Mikey alternated between sleeping all the time—too depressed for anything but recording, and even then it was hit and miss—and never sleeping, strung along on false energy and even more false happiness. Now he sleeps more like the rest of them—not enough for their age group, too much for their label. Mikey shifts under his hands. "I try."

Frank knows. There's too much electricity in the aftermath. If Mikey were Ray or Bob, Frank would offer up his trusty bottle of Nyquil and let him go to town. For obvious reasons, that's not going to happen here. He deepens the caress at the base of Mikey's neck, murmurs, "Come to my bunk, okay?"

There are other solutions than Nyquil. Better ones, in this case. For a second, a bare moment, Mikey is still. Then he breathes, "Yeah," and the energy returns, pure and oddly steadying.

*

Mikey is already in the bunk when Frank crawls in. He's clean, or as clean as any of them ever are after showering on the bus. His hair is damp and he smells like Pert, which is how Frank knows he's run out of shampoo again and is stealing Bob's.

He's still thrumming. Sometimes Frank considers telling him that if he would move around more on stage some of this would burn itself off, but he thinks Mikey knows. Most of the time, paralysis isn't voluntary.

He licks at the hollow of Mikey's neck, where some of the water that wasn't caught by the towel has pooled. Mikey arches off the bed but is silent, the way they all are, the way they've learned to be. It's not that the others won't know, but there are ways of sharing and ways of learning and all five of them are aware of the rules that surround sex on the bus. Rules or no, Frank laughs softly in Mikey's ear. "Yeah, okay."

He rolls over Mikey so that he's closer to the wall, presses his back up against it, pulls Mikey further into the bunk, against him. Mikey won't want gentle, not now, but he will want _close_ , so Frank wraps one arm around Mikey's chest, doesn't think about whether there will be bruises—mostly, mostly, because if there are, the visual...Frank needs to last, just a bit—and pulls Mikey's boxers down just enough, just to his thighs. Frank reaches up to the small ledge of the bunk, where he's stashed the lube, pops the top and doesn't even bother with niceties, squeezing some straight into Mikey. Mikey gasps at that, the cold. Frank murmurs, "Sh," but it's not really a scolding. He likes the sound of Mikey's surprise too much for it to be.

He presses his cock in somewhat slowly, aware that there's been no preparation. Mikey's used to this— _good_ at this—but still. Mikey wriggles on him, pushes onto him and Frank grabs his cock almost by instinct, squeezing just this side of too tightly. Mikey brings his hands up to the arm around his torso and digs his fingernails in. There will be marks, and Frank will have to wear long sleeves, but that's okay, because it's cold anyway. Their look is misfit-oriented enough that it wouldn't be remarked on even were it summer, not really.

Neither of them are going to last long and Frank knows it, not like this, cramped and hard and post-show, no. He whispers, "Yeah, baby, come on," and Mikey's fingernails sink deeper as he comes over Frank's hand, over himself. The pressure, the bare hint of pain is too much, and Frank follows his lead. When they've both fallen wholly into the bed, into the wall, limbless and yet somehow held together, Mikey is still for the first time the whole day. Frank asks, "Sleep now?" but Mikey's breaths are already steady and even.

*

Frank nudges Mikey awake with a hand to his shoulder. Mikey opens one eye—grudgingly—looks at Frank and asks, "Really?" in an amazingly ironic tone for someone who hasn't gained full consciousness.

Frank smiles, not wholly apologetically. "Sorry."

"Where are we?"

"Uh." Frank rustles underneath his bag for the schedule their manager printed out. "Have any idea what day it is?"

Mikey just looks at him.

"Right. Gimme a second." He remembers doing the Philly show, because there was that girl who managed to get on the bus despite security, and whoa hadn't that been a mess. Gerard still has scratches. The makeup crew likes to make growling noises at him.

He thinks that might have been three days ago. "I think we're close to Baltimore."

"We should go South. Really south. Cuba south. You think they'd like us there?"

"I think our rights as Americans might be revoked, but yeah, I'm pretty sure the youth of Cuba is equally pissed off at the world." Possibly more, but Frank isn't really claiming expertise. "Cold?"

"Freezing. Do we have heat on this bus, or did we not pay the bill last month?"

"I'm not in charge of the utilities," Frank says, but it's possible that if there were utilities, he would be. No, probably Ray. He puts the schedule back roughly where he found it and grabs one of his sweatshirts from right next to it. "Up."

Mikey grumbles but gets himself into a sitting position and puts his arms up, waiting. Frank pulls the shirt over his head. "Better?"

Mikey looks at him, accusatorily.

"Not what you wanted?" Frank asks.

Mikey's gaze stays precisely as it is. Frank crawls fully back into the bunk and curls himself fully around Mikey. "All right, but then we really do gotta get dressed."

Mikey snorts.

*

They have the night off on Thursday. Frank wakes up on the day he's pretty sure is Thursday. He's not wholly sure, so he asks Bob, who just shrugs, and Gerard, who has the sense to drag his mouse over the clock on his computer. "Yeah, Thursday."

There was a time—a relatively recent time—when Frank could run down to the local convenience store and grab himself some garlic chips and Dr. Pepper and cherry-lime popsicles, or whatever the hell he was craving. Not that he would give up the crowds, the way the girls (and the boys, hidden, hiding behind their hair and their designed-to-look-cheap clothing) smile when he's being rushed to the bus, the constant, unending closeness of the other four. No, not that he would give up any of that. But he wants some Twizzlers and it's a pain to have to ask someone else to go get them for him. It makes him feel stupid.

Still, he is going to ask so he makes sure Gerard and Bob don't want anything, yells out a check to Ray and then goes to find Mikey. Mikey's still asleep. Frank can see him breathing or he'd pass his hand over his mouth like he used to do when Mikey would sleep for twenty hours straight and wake up with eyes that were still bruised. Frank isn't sure if Mikey feels the shift in air currents caused by his approach, or if it's simply that second sense that allows someone to know when somebody's standing right over him in his sleep. Mikey twists a bit though, and stretches and Frank can't help reaching out to skim his fingers along the smooth plane of skin from hipbone to rib. Mikey bats his hand away, "Tickles."

"Pussy."

"Mm, you wish."

Frank doesn't. "I'm gonna have one of the roadies do a junk food run. You want?"

"Rocky road ice cream, sour worms and Cheez-its."

"Are you pregnant?"

"Yeah, that girl back in Atlanta. I told you something was screwy about her."

Frank grins. "We have tonight off."

"It's Thursday?" Mikey says, the word coming out with a hint of worship to it. In two weeks, Sunday will sound the same.

"Yup."

"I'm going back to sleep." Mikey closes his eyes.

Frank sighs. "Thought you'd say that."

Mikey smiles even with his eyes closed. "What, you don't want me awake for tonight?"

Frank goes off to procure them an energy source.

*

Gerard steals the rocky road, which is just bullshit, because Gerard doesn't even like rocky road—the marshmallows creep him out. Luckily, Frank has thought ahead, because he knows that occasionally Gerard feels the need to be a total brother, and not in the older, protective, useful sort of way that it generally manifests itself. He has ordered a pint and a gallon and hidden the latter. This is good planning on two levels: 1) he and Mikey will still have the gallon to dig into, and 2) if he positions himself right, he will be able to take photos on his phone of Gerard making faces every time he hits a marshmallow. One of these days, he's going to sell his collection to eBay. Maybe. Probably not.

The real threat to the sour worms comes from Ray, because Ray will eat anything that looks like it might have moved at one time. In order to stave off this theft, Frank has made sure to have gummy octopuses on hand, since Ray will be distracted by the many squirming legs. The Cheez-Its are safe, unless Bob gets the munchies, and then nothing is safe.

Frank always thinks he's going to find some time to learn jujitsu, and thereby defend his rightful transfat prizes, but when they get off tour, he mostly just sleeps a lot and sneaks to the store in the dead of night so that he doesn't have to sign some girl's bra while trying to figure out if the cantaloupe he's holding will taste like summer or faintly dusty cardboard. His mom keeps trying to teach him how to know, but there are things Frank is good at, and sadly, fruit discernment isn't one of them. He gets by.

Mikey's up when Frank delivers the goodies to his hotel room. They're in a hotel, an actual hotel that doesn't go anywhere once they walk in the door, and that's why it's a free night. There's neither concert, nor travel. Mikey's up and even somewhat dressed, which is a disappointment. Still, Frank likes the worn cotton of Mikey's off-stage, out of sight days, the cords that nearly crumble under his fingers, the jeans that already have crumbled, but Mikey holds together with his hipbones. Frank hands over the ice cream and shows him one of the pictures of Gerard all at once.

"Busy afternoon," Mikey says. "Come in."

Frank shuts the door after himself.

*

Gerard says, "You gotta erase those pictures. Because with my luck, you're gonna lose your cell phone and I'm gonna have hack reporters writing captions with sexual innuendo to them in J-14. And that will be the least of the horrors."

Frank has never lost his cell phone in his life. Nor his wallet, nor his watch, nor even his duffel bag. He loses socks all the time, but Ray seems to gain socks all the time, so he's pretty sure that's planned theft rather than accidental misplacement. Frank has no idea how Ray fits into the socks, but whatever, there are more important questions in life. "If I lost my cell phone, everyone I know and love would have to change their phone numbers, which I consider to be a bigger problem than you suffering some well-deserved humiliation, klepto."

Gerard tilts his head. "It's possible you have a point. I'll think it over."

"Do that."

Gerard looks down at his empty pad of paper as he asks, "How much of it did he eat?"

It's hard to know what to say to Gerard when he asks things like that. If Frank were asking Gerard he'd want to know, would think he had every right to know, but here Gerard is, blood and genes and history wholly entwined with Mikey's and Frank isn't sure where the lines of betrayal begin and end. "He's all right."

Gerard scribbles something, a swirl, a leaf—Frank can't tell except to know that it isn't words. Gerard says, "Okay."

Frank sits down across from Gerard and pulls the pad away. "What'd you do Thursday?"

Gerard shrugs. "Writer's block. There was a Robot Chicken marathon on Adult Swim."

"I like that show."

"It's funny." Gerard doesn't sound amused.

"He ate a third of it," Frank says, breaking. "It was impressive, actually."

"Huh," Gerard says.

"Stop trying," Frank says, and stands, taking the pad with him.

"It's sort of—"

"I'm in the band, Gerard. I know what it is. Stop trying." He walks away then, because a lot of the time when he argues with Gerard, Gerard wins, and Frank really doesn't want to give the pad back.

*

Frank doesn't worry about Mikey cheating, he's not the type. Even if he weren't in love with Frank—and Frank's about one hundred and four percent certain he is—he would be honest. Mikey's very honest. Frank does worry when he gets back, finally having beaten back the mono, to watch the way Mikey's eyes will sometimes follow a guy across a restaurant, in a hotel lobby. The guys are always roughly twice Frank's size, and obviously better acquainted with the gym. They are always in button down shirts, white or blue or even pink. They have soft curls, or well-parted locks. Their fingernails are buffed and clean. They walk like they have a book on their heads.

When Frank pushes Mikey to the floor of his hotel room after a particularly notable one—one with a _cardigan_ , for fuck's sake—it is maybe more of a statement of possession than it normally is. When he takes Mikey on his hands and knees and won't touch Mikey, but presses with short, hard strokes up against his prostate and says, "From this, baby, just from this," it is maybe more desperate and fear-filled than anything between them has been in a while.

Mikey's shoulders are shaking by the time he finally manages it and Frank pulls them both onto the floor, Mikey on top of him, cushioned, because he can't quite say, "Sorry," not just yet.

"Um," Mikey mutters, his eyes closed, his chapped lips forcing Frank to run his thumb over the lower one. "Not to complain, because I'm pretty much still getting over missing you, but do I get to know what that was about?"

"You have a hot ass," Frank says.

"I kinda prefer yours," Mikey tells him and nips Frank's thumb lightly, sucking away the not-hurt.

"Yeah?" Frank means for the question to be droll. It's un-ironic. He knows what it takes for Mikey to use teeth.

Mikey sucks a bit more forcefully, but Frank knows he's just thinking. Then he lets go so that he can say, "Okay, you know what? Let's start over again. You wanna tell me what that was about?"

"Is this the kind of 'want' where I get a choice?"

"No, not really."

Frank sighs and gives in, because Mikey has asked, and Frank isn't so honest, but he is with Mikey. "I'm not your type."

"Huh?"

"Your type. You like them big and clean."

"For sex, sure. It's so...paradoxical, the way those types will talk to you with their perfectly manicured words and fuck you so dirty you can smell it for a week. And I'm a tall guy, they're sort of my size."

"We have sex, Mikey."

"Mm," Mikey smiles and wriggles against Frank, "we do."

"I'm not your size, and I'm not...what you see is mostly what you get with me."

"That's quite possibly the stupidest thing you've ever said to me. Well, okay, you're not exactly my size, but you make up for that by sheer force, so whatever."

"I wear myself on my arms, in our songs, Mikey."

"And yet everytime you touch me I know something new about you. Maybe I'm just stupid."

"Stop talking smack about my boyfriend."

"Not until you return the favor."

Frank says softly, "I just don't want you to be stuck. I don't want you to want things and think you can't have them."

"That part's done," Mikey says softly.

Frank would wonder where he was when he should have been looking at Mikey, but he remembers Gerard being in the way. He can't resent Gerard for it, but he sort of wishes he could. "Yeah," he squeezes Mikey until Mikey makes sounds of distress. It takes an enormous amount of strength.

*

Frank reads the copy of Rock Sound that they send each of them and calls Mikey, who doesn't pick up his phone. He leaves the message, "Call me."

He leaves the same message a few hours later. He fucking hates this, hates Mikey not being with them, hates that Mikey can just not pick up the phone if he doesn't want to talk to them, to Frank. He gets that it's necessary, that Mikey needs this, that the only thing to do for Mikey was to send him home, but that doesn't mean he has to like it. It blows, and Frank's not pretending otherwise, he's just not. The next day he's accelerated to, "Seriously, I miss you, please call."

By the afternoon he's at, "Mikey, c'mon, don't make me rally the troops to have people calling you every single second of the day. I know you, you won't turn your Sidekick off."

By his post-show phone call he's leaving ten minutes messages in the bizarre hope that maybe Mikey will call back in the middle, or something. By the third day he has Gerard, Ray, Bob, Spencer, Ryan, Brendon, Jon and Pete all calling Mikey non-stop. Mikey caves halfway through the day. "I thought you people sent me home for some peace and quiet."

"Not from me," Frank says.

"I'm very busy starting my own cult, I'll have to call you back later."

"Gerard and I have been discussing whether we can sue those fuckers, but evidently you're allowed to talk a lot of smack about us before we can kick your asses in a court of law. Bob is looking into seeing if we can have them taken out. He knows people."

"Bob?"

"Yes."

"No he doesn't."

"He's from _Chicago_."

"I'm from New Jersey."

"Right, but you're preoccupied with starting your cult."

"Evidently I didn't learn enough from Gerard's example about winning friends and influencing people because so far, it's a cult of one."

"No, at least two. And Gerard doesn't have fucking BPS, so those buttmunches can fucking bite me."

"Oh yeah? Everyone agreeing with you on that end?" Mikey's breathing was heavy.

"Mikey," Frank said. "Mikey. Baby. C'mon, stop. Stop."

"I'm not— I'm not like him, I can't just decide to get better and then do it. I can— I mean, I'm good at following a schedule and all those little, good boy things he could never do, but when it comes to being fucking effective he's always—"

"Mikey. Mikey. No. No no no. You're just different. Just different. Gerard was an alcoholic. You have a chemical imbalance. The two aren't even on the same scale. Of course it was easier for him."

"He must— I'm ruining his band, his fucking dream—"

"You're not ruining anything. All of us are just waiting for you, that's all. That's all. We're just waiting, because it's hard not having you. But you're not ruining anything. Thousands of fans are still seeing the show. It's not as good, it can't be, but they're still seeing it. You don't ruin things."

"Sometimes."

"Everybody makes mistakes, Mikey. Not everybody bothers to fix them, the way you do."

"Can't always."

"You and me both. Gerard and Ray and Bob for that matter."

Mikey's laugh has a little sniffle in it, but it's a laugh all the same. "Tell everyone to stop calling me."

"Tell'em yourself."

"Jerk."

"You're the asshole who was ignoring my calls."

"Cults are hard work."

Frank snorts and hangs up. He waits. The phone rings on two Mississippi.

*

They're back in New Jersey early because of the cancellations, and Frank feels like shit for thinking it—because Bob and Ray and Matt have been sicker than Frank has ever been in his whole life, and that's saying something—but he's glad. He's even glad they've left hoards of disappointed fans strewn out across states. They'll come back. They will. And Frank wants to see Mikey. He needs to see Mikey.

It isn't that he doesn't know how badly Mikey needed to leave, how he needed to stay in one spot, know where he was waking up and going to bed, not have to put on makeup and everything that goes with it. Frank knows. Frank was the one who told Gerard, to which Gerard asked, "I maybe should have had the balls to say it first, huh?" Frank doesn't blame Gerard for that. Gerard always wants to see Mikey as doing all right, wants to give him that much.

Frank knows and it's good that Mikey took them at their word and left before there were any more glasses and apologies and things that Frank just prefers to see left in the past. But Frank misses him, misses him with every damn stroke of Matt's fingers—and he's conscious, so conscious of being nice to Matt, who asked, "Is Mikey all right?" when they approached him about a temporary step in—misses him every time he climbs into his bunk, every time he wakes, every time he sits on the couch, just misses him.

He lets himself into Mikey's house. There are still boxes in a lot of places, many of them Ikea. Mikey can afford better furniture, but then he wouldn't get to put it together, which is a good three-quarters of Mikey's joy in buying the stuff. Frank calls, "Mikey?"

Frank hears rustling, then a little clattering and then Mikey descends upon him from an unforeseen direction. Frank takes it in stride, gets himself as tangled in Mikey as he can as quickly as possible. Mikey kisses him hard and fast and says, "I'll ask about the others later."

Frank slips to his knees and tugs Mikey's sweatpants over his hips, his cock. "Good plan," he says, and then gets busy christening Mikey's entryway.

*

Frank orders food when they've gotten the first rush of welcome out, because Mikey's always hungry, particularly after expending that much energy, and his kitchen has about four bowls unpacked in it. They don't match. He orders from his favorite Chinese place. It doesn't technically deliver to Mikey's part of town, but Frank bribes them with cash money. He wants fried vegetarian dumplings and a good Buddha's Delight and neither of those are easy to find in New Jersey, not even the schwank quarter Mikey's moved himself into. Frank supposes they expect everyone to commute the forty-five minutes into Chinatown. Whatever.

He tells them to bring extra fortune cookies. Mikey likes opening them. Frank folds himself onto the couch—one of the few surfaces completely clutter free—and watches Mikey figure out how to assemble the entertainment center. He would offer to help, but that would just ruin Mikey's fun. Mikey asks, "Seriously, how are Bob and Ray and Matt?"

"Ray and Matt are getting there. Bob's pretty close to dead. Spencer sent him this cold pack thing to put on his stomach to at least numb the muscles. It seems to help a little."

"Spence must be going out of his fucking mind."

"Brendon said Jon mixed the insides of a Benadryl capsule in his ice cream about a day ago."

Mikey looks up. Frank tightens his grip on his knees. "There were probably a couple of times when Bob couldn't even talk to Spence, he was so fucking sick."

"You guys didn't say."

"So you could be as freaked out as Spence? There didn't seem to be much point." Frank wanted to tell Mikey, but that had been a selfish thing, he'd wanted Mikey to say, "It's just food poisoning, they'll all be fine," and that isn't what Mikey needs right now, even if sometimes it is, even if sometimes Mikey needs things to put together, to hold up. Right now the Ikea is more than enough.

Mikey abandons his project for Frank, squeezes himself between the sofa and Frank's body, compact and contained. Frank holds to his composure for a moment and then melts into Mikey. Mikey strokes at his back, "I don't suppose you could contract mono again?"

"Blow me," Frank mutters. How the hell Mikey _didn't_ get mono is beyond him. Also, annoying as fuck. Assholes with their super-human (or really, just human) immune systems.

Mikey takes the imprecation as suggestion, reaching down to cop a feel. "I don't think you're quite ready yet."

Frank's really not. Mikey rests his chin on Frank's shoulder. "If you asked me to come back, I would."

It's a cruel offer, with Mikey looking like he's actually sleeping some and keeping some weight on and managing basic human things that contribute to health and happiness. "I know."

"No?"

Frank shakes his head. There's a reason they sent Mikey home for a while. A good one.

"I miss you."

Frank knows. He knows with every rambling message Mikey leaves him while he's performing and all the texts he wakes up to the next morning and the gifts that arrive at hotels ahead of him. He knows because he would feel it if this level of emotion were his and his alone. The doorbell rings and Frank says, "You gotta let me go."

It takes Mikey a while.

*

Frank calls after the show because _fuckfuckfuck_. Gerard sits beside him, knees bouncing uncontrollably.

Mikey picks up, "Anyone get hit by a bottle?"

"We're all alive and well and I want you to remember that you're _happy_ about that fact in a minute when I get done telling you what I have to tell you."

"Um. Okay."

"We were playing and you know how it is when you're playing and you're not really thinking and some pissant from the crowd maybe yells 'faggot' and you want to prove a point, but Ray's all the way across the stage and likely to be a little put off if you prove it with him and Bob's on a frickin' drum stand so really the only option is to walk across the stage and kiss the lead singer, who maybe then kisses back, because we're both, you know, proving a point."

Mikey is silent.

"Please, please say something. I swear it wasn't—"

"Has my brother called JC?"

"Um—"

"Because he probably should. Just. Y'know. There'll be pictures, and he should—"

"Mikey, please, I'm so—"

"If I had been there, would it have been me?"

"You have to ask?" Frank asks, largely because he literally can't conceive that Mikey _would_ have to. Then he realizes that was the wrong answer. "I mean, yes, of course it would have been you, Mikey. Jesus."

"Because it might not have been as flashy, might not have proven your point quite so well."

"It would have proven my point perfectly, because I fucking love you and I have no issue being a faggot if it means I get to be yours and you get to be mine and fuck, I wish it had been you, okay? I wish—"

"Ray would have gone with it. Maybe not as much as Gerard—"

"Mikey I don't want your brother. I don't. And he doesn't want me. That's done. That's _done._ "

There is another long silence and Frank is considering begging when Mikey says, softly, "I know. I just wish it hadn't been him."

The admission knocks any fight Frank might have had right out of him. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry. It was stupid."

"Sometimes when you're playing," Mikey says.

"Mikey."

"You said you loved me."

"I do, I love you."

"I wish I had been there."

"The toilets are the most disgusting things I've ever seen in my life."

"Still."

Frank sighs. "Yeah. Yeah."

Next to him, Gerard begins to breathe again.

*

Frank goes straight to Mikey's place from the airport. He doesn't even care if Mikey will let him use the shower or not—he will—Frank needs to be with him.

He isn't even fully in the door when Mikey grabs him, yanks him inside, closes the door behind him. Frank's back is pressing into the doorknob and it hurts and he couldn't care less if he tried. Mikey says, "Mine," and it sounds more like a question than it should, far more like one. Frank does the most instinctive thing possible, throws his head back, bears his neck, says, "Mikey," says, "Yours."

Mikey's teeth sink in quick and sharp. Frank's forgotten that feeling, because Mikey has all his stops, all his guilt and Frank hopes that Mikey just keeps them where they are, doesn't let go, doesn't look back. Frank feels the skin break, feels the trickle of heat and iron and life between them. Mikey's hands find Frank's and they hold too tight, everything is too fucking much and Frank says, "Yours, oh, oh, yours."

Mikey releases his teeth, laps gently at the torn skin. "Want—"

"Just take, just. Yours."

Mikey lets go of Frank's hands but only to get at his jeans, tear them down, push Frank to his knees. "Take them off."

Frank does. It's hurried and unsexy and neither of them has any idea, cares. At all. Mikey is busy getting his own pants off, sinking down to rest with his back against the door. He grabs a condom from his pocket, slicks it on and says, "Get on my dick. Now."

Frank straddles Mikey, slides down so hard it burns, and that is as good as the bite, as the bruises he'll feel in his hands tomorrow. He wishes he had to play through the pain, had some need to feel it every fucking second. Mikey wraps his hand around the back of Frank's neck, presses his thumb to the teeth marks. "Mine," he growls, grabbing Frank's cock with his other hand, and there's no question there anymore.

"Yes," Frank says, "yes, yes."

"Mine," Mikey repeats and Frank wants to hold on, wants to be in this state of held, of awaited pleasure forever, but he can't, not with Mikey claiming him.

He says, "Mikey."

Mikey says, "Show me."

"Only you," Frank tells him. "Only."

*

When he can remember where he put his tongue, Frank says, "Now you need a shower, too." It's a happy thought.

Mikey laughs a little but doesn't move his head from Frank's stomach, where it has come to rest. Frank combs his fingers through Mikey's hair. "Come on. Hot water. It'll be fun."

"How's your neck?" Mikey asks softly.

The bite pulses a little, warm and low and comforting. Frank grins. He says, "Look at me, Mikey."

Mikey shivers.

" _Look_ at me."

Mikey lifts his head and twists just a bit. He blinks at what Frank knows has to be a grin so bright they could probably turn off the lights and be fine. Frank asks, "How do you _think_ it is?"

Mikey reaches out and touches his fingers to the skin around it. "Probably needs to be cleaned."

Frank perks up even further. "Shower?"

Mikey smiles at him, the best kind of Mikey smile, the one Frank wishes he had on film, even if it wouldn't be quite the same. It's Mikey's I-love-you smile, and it doesn't look the same for any two people in the world. Mikey nods. "Shower."

Frank adores Mikey's new shower. It's large and open and has two widely circular heads that drench a person without much persuasion from the dial. He has to wash himself first, but then he lets Mikey do it. Mikey pays careful attention to Frank's battle wounds, kissing at them gently once he has them cleaned out. Afterward they lie on Mikey's fluffy towels in the moist heat of the bathroom, clean and sated and comfortable.

Frank lets Mikey put some ointment on the bite, rubbing it gently in. He says, "I don't want it to go right away."

Mikey drags his thumb gently at the skin near Frank's right eye. "You really— That—"

"Yours," Frank says, grinning again. He can't help it.

Mikey lowers his head and proceeds to give Frank the biggest hickey he's ever had in his life.

*

Frank is rifling through Mikey's t-shirts for a clean one that he can wear until all of his have been through the laundry at _least_ once. He fishes out the Rutgers Outdoor Club shirt and looks at it for a few seconds before bursting into laughter. "Jesus, Mikey, I can't believe you still have this."

Mikey looks over. "It's soft. And blue. And you gave it to me. Why the hell would I _not_ still have it?"

"'Gave' it to you might be a bit of an exaggeration."

"It was too long on you, so you let me wear it."

"Not necessarily for keeps," Frank teases.

"Mean," Mikey tells him.

"You looked so hot in it. If NJPIRG had had more tablers that looked like you, I probably would have gone to save the whales rather than taken up with some emo band and it's dangerous, dangerous ideas."

"Good thing the PIRGers were all dogs."

Frank balls the shirt up and throws it at Mikey. " _Mean._ "

"You noticed me looking hot?"

"Don't worry, I was entirely certain I was going to hell for it."

"Well, you were."

Frank laughs. "Wanna put it on for me now that I can gawk to my heart's desire?"

"Dirty," Mikey says.

"Not unless you lied about having done laundry."

Mikey smirks and throws the shirt he has on to the side. He pulls the Rutgers one over his head.

Frank stalks toward him. "Hell might be worth it."

*

Mikey has a somewhat irrational hatred of YouTube at times. He _shouldn't_ hate it, because it brings him Frank, but he does because it's not ever really Frank. Mikey has a long and illustrious career built around Frank-watching and the figure in YouTube is always some sort of weird, blurred, stick-figure Not-Frank. It's like the Internet is taunting him.

Mikey tries to stay away, but evidently barely-visible marionette-boy Frank is better than no Frank, because Mikey just can't stop. It's worse than alcohol. When Frank comes back, Mikey's almost surprised to find him three dimensional, and with clearly defined edges. Almost, except not quite, because Mikey's sense of Frank has always been too strong for his own good.

When Frank comes back he isn't performing for Mikey, not strapping himself to his guitar and taking them both for a ride. He isn't singing and thrashing and doing all those things that the computer kept trying—if not particularly managing—to show Mikey. Instead he is doing things like brushing his hair, which has gotten too long for him to simply let be, not if he doesn't want mats on his head. That wouldn't be very Frank-like.

Mikey watches as intently as he ever watched any YouTube video when Frank will pull the comb through his hair—a rough, stop and go journey at first, settling into a smooth glide as Frank tames his own strands. The moment doesn't need watching as closely, it's right in front of Mikey, but Mikey has gotten in the habit and just because he has better pictures that doesn't make the pursuit of detail any less worthy.

Frank always starts from the left and makes his way around the crown of his head to the right. Even when the tangles are particularly nasty he just yanks with a sort of stoic acceptance, not even putting his hand to the strands to lessen the pull. When he catches Mikey watching him he'll smile into the mirror, goofy and sweet. Sometimes he asks, "Wanna take over?" and Mikey will, because Frank could clearly use a break.

It's hardly a chore to have the long, soft strands turned over to his care, but Mikey does miss watching the way Frank's torso moves with his arms, the inelegant swaying of his neck. Instead Mikey watches the way Frank's eyes slip closed when Mikey touches his fingers to Frank's roots and goes about the problem in a gentler fashion. He watches the way Frank will arch up into the tines of the comb occasionally, or breathe with his mouth open when the worst of the tangles have been worked free, and Mikey can just run the instrument through the strands.

At some point, Frank will mumble, "You gonna watch all day, or you gonna make a move?" his eyes still closed.

Mikey says, "I could give myself something else to watch," and palms Frank through his soft, time-off pants.

Frank lets his head drop back, the clean, surprisingly long line of his neck on display for all—Mikey—to see. He opens his eyes. "Big talker."

Mikey pops a button.

Frank breathes through his open mouth, and yeah, he knows what he's doing, knows he's there for Mikey's viewing pleasure. Mikey slips his hands into Frank's boxers. "How's that for talk?"

"Shutting up now," Frank says.

Mikey loves the "mute" button.

*

By the third month without Mikey at his back, Frank doesn't even feel the needles anymore, which he knows is a problem, he's not so far gone that he can't tell how far gone he is, but he can't bring himself to stop trying to feel them, can't stop trying to fill the places that suddenly seem empty with color, or—at the very least—ink. Words, pictures, anything, just so long as it's not skin, just so long as he's not stuck looking at it and seeing hands that aren't there. Changing the landscape is the only thing he can think of to stop, just to stop.

It's not working as well as he would like. Every new line, every new shade just calls for a new memory, for the need to have Mikey's tongue trace along the art, his fingers curve up over the edges. Frank tries getting them one after another, not allowing his body the time it needs, seeing if he can feel that, feel the push, feel what he isn't allowing himself, feel anything other than the sense of what's missing.

He takes up smoking again for the exact opposite reason, to see if it gives him pleasure, see if the chemicals take hold of him the way they used to. He wants Mikey around to light his cigarette for him, to talk while Frank is enjoying the rush of nicotine. He wants Mikey to tell him he's an asshole and he had quit and what the fuck is he doing.

Mikey actually does this last for him upon catching a photo of Frank smoking, but there's the filter of fiberoptics and while it's something, it's not what Frank really, truly wants. He doesn't say that, because Mikey sounds pretty settled—other than being pissed off—and settled is good, settled is what they all sent him home for.

Mikey doesn't sound settled when he says, "Gonna leave any skin just for me?" He sounds unsure.

Frank says, "Every inch."

Mikey says, "Frank, I don't— I don't get it."

Frank won't say, "I miss you," can't say, "I'm numb," is left saying, "I just needed them."

"Yeah," Mikey says, "That part I got. I don't get the part where you seem to think you're better if people can't see what's underneath."

Frank starts to deny the accusation and then stops. He hasn't thought about it until now, hasn't thought about how much easier it is with the art for people to stare at, rather than thinking it's just _him_. "People have a way of seeing through me too easily." People being mostly Mikey and Gerard, but he thinks Mikey will understand that.

"I worked for that," Mikey tells him.

Frank's not so sure that's true, but he likes the sentiment. "You can't see, now?"

"No, no. Frank. I can see. I just— _I_ can see."

"I'm like your secret, then." Frank likes that idea, he likes it a lot.

Mikey laughs a little in a way that Frank can't exactly parse. He says, "In more ways than one."

Frank closes his eyes. "Yeah, but I made this one. I gave it to you."

"You say that like it's something new."

Frank knows that tone. It's the same one Mikey uses to tell Frank he loves him.

*

Frank says it in the middle of a conversation, he says it because it's on his mind, not because it matters or means anything, it's just something he says. "I have to sign another lease soon. I think my landlord's going to jack the rent. Which is annoying, given how much of the year I spend there."

Mikey makes a sound that Frank can't quite comprehend. "Babe?"

"Oh, you know, that's just, um. Stupid. Of your landlord."

Frank frowns. He's pretty sure that wasn't what the noise meant. "I'm not sure stupid is the right word. If someone from My Chemical Romance were living in my building two months out of the year I'd probably bleed him dry, too."

"No you wouldn't, and you should break the lease."

"What? Mikey, I don't really wanna spend my whole time at home apartment hunting. Remember the last time?"

"Intimately." Mikey sounds like he's shuddering.

"Right, sorry, that wasn't very nice of me."

"You're a total dick, that's why I'm dating you, and I wasn't talking about you apartment shopping." Mikey mutters something under his breath that sounds a lot like "functional retard," to Frank.

Frank takes a moment to go over the facts he has. Mikey has suggested giving up his apartment, but Mikey does not want him to look for a new apartment. "Are you asking me to move in with you?"

"I'm saying I think it's only reasonable, given your utter lack of rent-control." Mikey sounds stiff, nervous.

"You're such a romantic."

"Oh, fuck off," but there's an exhalation with the curse, a bit of laughter.

"You really want me?" Frank just needs to check. Just in case Mikey really does feel bad about the rent problem.

This time, Mikey just says, "Functional retard," in an audible tone. Then he says, "Frank, Jesus, did you miss the part where when I bought the house I asked you if you liked it, first? And then when you said, 'yeah, it's nice,' I made you walk through the fucking thing until you had something more to say?"

Oh. Frank actually kind of did miss that part, at least on a conscious level. "Mikey."

"What was the point of having this whole stupid house to myself? I mean, maybe if Gerard hadn't been so intent on moving across the damn country, but even then, really, no, no point if you weren't going to finally give up your stupid apartment."

"People are going to talk."

"Nah, I talked to Brian. He says he can make it look like you still keep your own place."

"Have I mentioned that I love having an evil overlord as our manager?"

"QED."

"Yeah, good point."

"Want me to go pack up your stuff?"

"You wanna go pack up my stuff?"

"I like your stuff."

"You have the keys."

Frank hears them jingle.

*

Mikey's lived in the house for quite some time, but when Frank comes home from PR there's really nothing to do but christen it as _theirs_. They mean to do so in the living room, since it's pretty central, but they don't make it that far and have to settle for the staircase—Mikey kneeling up, his knees on the second step, hands resting on the fifth, Frank holding on to the stair railing for support, both of them breathless. Frank seems to be actually trying to tell Mikey things, but Mikey's just going to have to ask later. Right then he's very busy being nothing but the smooth, warm wood beneath him, the wet, damp softness of Frank's free palm on his shoulder, the solid, consistent pleasure of him driving into Mikey. When they're done they both slide all the way to the floor and Mikey admits, "I don't have any clue what you just told me."

"Yeah," Frank says, "me neither."

Mikey hopes none of it was important. Frank tilts his head up, arching his back to look behind him and says, "Oh."

"Oh?" Mikey asks.

"You put my stuff out."

Mikey follows his gaze. There are some new frames on the mantelpiece bearing pictures of Frank with Pencey and Frank with his family. "Yeah. I put the Godzilla poster in the studio. I had it framed. I hope you like the frame I picked."

"I've been meaning to do that—"

"For like two years. Yeah, I had the time. I hung your pants in the closet, too. And I got us a shoe rack, mostly because I had to assemble it, but it's pretty useful, now I don't keep accidentally trying to put on your midget-feet shoes, which was just annoying. I threw my towels out and kept yours, yours were actual towels and mine weren't really deserving of that label any longer. I put your dresser in the closet, because it was looking kinda rough, but I put your underwear and socks and t-shirts in there."

"Do I have anything left to unpack?"

"Um... I bought bookshelves because I could put them together, too, so I put all your books out, but I didn't really futz around with order, so you might need to redo that. Other than that, I can't really think of much. You didn't have a lot of kitchen stuff, so I just mixed it in with my not a lot of kitchen stuff and the knickknacks can be found around the house at large."

"You didn't have to do that."

"Well, no, but I didn't want our time spent at home to be spent unpacking, and I thought this way you'd believe me, that this was yours, too."

Frank rolls over onto Mikey. "I believed you."

"Just in case, I'm just saying."

"Where are my dogs?"

"Backyard. They're gonna be pissed when they figure out I'm keeping you from them, huh?"

"Piglet Tree'll protect you."

"If it comes down to being between me and your dogs, I really am going to have to expect you to side with me."

"You ask a lot, Mikey Way."

Mikey looks up at Frank. "I know."

Frank kisses him. "I don't really notice."

*

Mikey looks at himself for the fifth time that afternoon and finally just gives up. "Is my fly open, or something?"

Ray says, "No. No," and pretends to go back to doing whatever he was not doing when he started staring at Mikey. Mikey turns the tables and stares at Ray. Tragically, Ray is better at ignoring Mikey than vice versa. Mikey goes and sits on Ray's lap. Ray wraps his arms around Mikey's midsection and goes right on pretending like nothing is happening. Mikey says softly, "If you don't tell me, I can't fix it."

Ray sighs. "Just. That's your third cup of coffee since you woke up. Two hours ago."

Mikey actually hasn't been counting. Coffee comforts him. "My coffee problem isn't a new thing."

"No, but... Do you ever wonder if all the caffeine fucks with your meds?"

Now that Ray mentions it, it's not something Mikey's thought to ask his doctor. It seems like something a doctor would have said, but it couldn't hurt to ask.

"Or even just makes you kind of..."

"Kinda?"

Ray shakes his head. "You know I suck at this."

Mikey can't determine if "this" means "being your friend," or "understanding what's happening with you." "I'm not gonna be mad at you for being worried."

"You get mad at Frank."

Mikey frowns. "No I don't."

"Frustrated."

"Okay, well, Frank sometimes does things like try to get me to eat six times a day. And I mean, I know I eat a lot, but that's overdoing it a bit, don't you think?"

"He was pretty fucked up with you gone. In a Frank sort of way. He just doesn't want that to happen again. None of us do, not if we can help it."

Mikey rubs at his neck. "I'm trying my best."

"We know. We know, okay? We're just—" Ray shakes his head.

"You think less coffee might be a good idea?"

"No, that was stupid, you should ignore—"

"No, maybe. Maybe I could cut down a little. Probably not the worst idea overall, you know? Even if I wasn't imbalanced."

"You balance just fine," Ray says.

Mikey kisses the top of his head. "Liar."

Ray tightens his hold on Mikey.

*

Frank really actually does try not to do condescending shit like ask if Mikey's remembered to take his meds, because of course Mikey's remembered to take his meds, Mikey hasn't forgotten to take his meds since he started taking them, not even all the times when they were flying overseas and he had to work out the change in hours and wake himself up to make sure he had them and the one time at the fest when for some reason all the water bottles were in a tent on the other side of the fucking event and Mikey had to walk all the way over because he wasn't willing to ask some gofer kid to do it for him. Mikey is really good about taking the meds.

It's just that there's not a hell of a lot Frank _can_ do. Mikey gets tired of Frank always pressing food on him, and, okay, Frank can see how that would get really fucking old after the second time or so, and Gerard is Mikey's older brother, so he can do all that stuff like wrapping Mikey up in his arms even if Mikey is bigger; Gerard is softer and really, really good at giving hugs, and Ray stays calm when Mikey needs calm and Bob lets Mikey cheer him up when he's missing Spencer, which Mikey needs, needs to feel needed. Frank _needs_ Mikey. He just isn't as good at making that tangible. He actually sort of sucks at it.

In the end he gives up trying to be at all cool about the situation, buys Mikey a stuffed unicorn somewhere in the middle of Florida and wraps it in a note that says, "I can't help worrying. ~~I don't mean it to be~~ I know you're a big boy and mostly okay and all but then sometimes you aren't and by that time I can't help and so I want to help when I can except I guess I'm bad at that but it's just that I love you, that's all. Just that."

Mikey finds him, the unicorn held against his chest. He says, "I named her Crescendo."

"How do you know it's a her?"

"I checked."

Frank nods. Mikey sits next to him. Frank says, "I just want what's good for you, what keeps you healthy and here. I want you with me."

Mikey rests his head on Frank's shoulder. "You can be overbearing. If you want."

"I don't mean to drive you crazy."

"I know. I can be more patient."

"Mikey."

"I just love you, too. I just want you happy, too."

"Just— Okay, if there's something you need, maybe come to me first? And if I can't help, then fine, we get Gerard or whatever, but give me a chance?"

Mikey lifts his head to look at Frank. "You think I wouldn't?"

Frank shrugs.

Mikey leans in, kisses him. "I'll be a better boyfriend, okay?"

"That's not—"

"I will."

Frank kisses him. "I just love you, is all."

Mikey nods, their foreheads pressing together.

*

Frank has learned to be watchful for the times when Mikey needs to be brought down from a show and the times when he needs to just be unwound from it; there are significantly different signs. The former involves a shakiness that almost seems to be under the skin, tremors almost. Mikey sometimes can't stop talking which is fine, Frank doesn't mind, could listen, could come back at him forever, but if he lets it run that long it will run its course and what will be left in its place will not be so fine, will hurt to watch. The latter involves tightened muscles and a clenched jaw and eerie silence.

The former can generally be fixed with sex, which is nice, if not always easy. The latter Frank has to be more careful about. He knows that there are things that Mikey can ask for and things that Mikey doesn't even know to ask for and being unwound falls specifically in the second category. Mikey and Gerard have that in common.

Frank generally starts by getting Mikey in the shower. It isn't even part of his compulsion. It's just a good way to know how hard this particular evening is going to be. If Mikey lets his shoulders fall under the water, Frank can probably get him to sleep with some slow sex, some careful words. If he won't, then something more clever is called for.

Frank orders peppermint scented oil because Mikey likes things that smell fresh and winter-y, even when it's 108 degrees out. Especially then. He tries it out one of the nights when Mikey's wound so tight it's amazing he hasn't broken on himself, just warms the oil in his hands and brings them to Mikey's shoulders, digging slowly in to where the worst of the tenseness will have settled. Mikey breaths in. "Oh. Nice."

Frank kisses the top of his head. "Just keep breathing."

The deep breaths help Frank in loosening up the muscles that have spiraled themselves into impossible knots. Frank pushes and pulls and twists and rubs. Occasionally Mikey moans or whimpers or says, "Oh, right, yes, like that." Mostly he breathes. He falls asleep sitting up as Frank lightens the massage to just touch, just unceasing caresses.

Frank whispers, "Mikey."

"Mm?" He's not actually awake, Frank knows.

"Help me put you to bed." Frank puts him on his feet and Mikey sleep walks to the bed with him.

*

Frank kisses Mikey while he's still talking. Mikey talks into the kiss but that's fine, that's fine, Frank has time. Tonight won't be like two nights ago, won't be like when Frank just listened until Mikey had worn himself into exhaustion, worn himself into doubt, into silence that was filled with words that Frank would have listened to but wouldn't have wanted to hear. Frank kisses Mikey through the words, kisses him till he kisses back.

There's a rustling above them and Frank feels a little bit bad, thinks, _Call Jace, Gee_ , but he's not going to stop tending to Mikey to tend to Gerard. He's not going to stop. Frank rolls Mikey onto his stomach, because they can take their time later, or maybe another night, but not now. Now needs to be immediate, as fast as Mikey's tongue can move, faster than his demons can run.

Mikey says, "No, no," and Frank stops cold. That's new.

"I just," Mikey shifts onto his back. "I just wanna see."

Oh, okay. "Okay."

They'll talk about that later, Frank thinks, they'll need to, but for now, fine, fine, better maybe. Frank likes seeing, too. Mikey has a way of looking at him that's different than anyone else, different even than Gerard, who was awed, too, who loved Frank, too. Gerard saw metaphors in Frank, Frank is pretty sure. Mikey sees magic.

Frank slides into him and Mikey bites his lip, keeps talking, but it's slower, now, calmer, Frank can actually hear the words through the franticness of it all. Frank says, "Okay, baby. Okay," in response to everything. Nothing.

Mikey bucks up into him, says, "More, Jesus, Frank," soft, like he knows Gerard is there, too. He probably does. Mikey's learned to be here even when he's not, Frank thinks. That's why he gets so tired. He's there all the fucking time.

Frank speeds up, presses in, says, "Okay."

The come as one, which isn't, that isn't really a thing with them, but sometimes it isn't them pacing themselves, it's just the moment. Frank is careful not to crush Mikey. He says, "I'll go—"

"In a minute," Mikey says. "Be dirty with me for a second, okay?"

"Not dirty."

"It wasn't—"

"It was."

"Maybe a little."

"Not dirty."

Mikey lets him go for the washcloths.

*

Mikey likes to press his lips to the back of Frank's knees. Frank always shivers a bit at the sensation, sweet and intense and just a little wet. The first time he ever did it, Frank got hard just from the kiss and Mikey unrolled from the position he was in to palm Frank's cock and ask, "Erogenous zone, much?"

Frank said, "Never was before you."

Mikey calls it, "my spot," as in a casually murmured, "When we get home I'm going to sink my teeth into my spot until you beg me to move them elsewhere," or a quick swipe of his hand to them on warm days, when Frank is wearing shorts and a, "That's my spot," with a grin. Frank never argues. He sort of thinks of himself as one big "my spot" for Mikey, but if Mikey wants to be particular, that's fine, too.

It makes him think, though, and after he's been thinking about it for a while, he says, "I want you on my skin."

Mikey sneaks his fingers under the collar of Frank's shirt.

"No, I mean, well, yes. That too. But I meant like this." Frank traces the words at his wrist.

"Oh." Mikey inhales, quick and sharp. "Really?"

"That isn't really something I would just say."

Mikey tilts his head. "You didn't do that with Gerard."

Frank shakes his head. "No."

"Huh." It takes a second, but Mikey's smile is so blinding, Frank has to squint. Mikey asks, "What's it gonna be?"

"Haven't decided."

"Want ideas?"

"Have any?"

"Not really, but I could come up with some. I'm an ideas guy."

"I thought you were our name guy."

"Names and ideas. That's me."

Frank admits, "Yeah, I usually like your ideas."

"Big of you to say so."

"I sort of thought it was."

Mikey hits him in the shoulder. Frank catches his wrist and pulls him closer. "Right now I'd settle for having you on my skin like this."

"Yeah?" Mikey asks, pretending confusion.

Frank noses at Mikey's chin. "Yes."

"Very well," Mikey says, laughing. Frank flips him around and pushes him into the wall, laughing right along with him.

*

"Can I have one on each?" Mikey asks and lays out what he's come up with for the backs of both knees.

Frank says, "Yes," before he even looks. There are times when having an issue saying 'no' isn't as much of an issue. He's glad he's given in when he sees what Mikey wants.

Mikey goes with him to the tattoo parlor, even though he probably shouldn't, it's all just too intimate, but Frank isn't going to tell him he can't. There are times when not being able to say 'no' is a huge pain in the ass. Mikey's good at being chill though, laughing when the tattoo artist makes jokes about Frank's girlfriend and how whipped he must be. Frank knows he's the only person in the world—or well, at least one of only four people—who can see the secret in Mikey's eyes.

The needle doesn't hurt as much as it did on his lower back, over his spine, on his neck, but the pain is enough, enough, and Frank floats for most of it, ignoring everything but the soft hum of Mikey's voice when he will say things. Even then there are no words, just the general pitch and roll of the sound. There's a hand to his back at some point and Mikey laughs and says, "You fall asleep?"

Frank doesn't feel like explaining, not here, so he just yawns. "Maybe a little."

The artist gives him a bag of supplies and looks at his arms. "Can I assume you know the drill?"

Frank nods, sits with his knees carefully away from the edge of the chair and lets Mikey pay.

Mikey gets him home— _home_ home, not the bus, they're in Jersey for the weekend, which is why Frank has chosen this time to go in and get them done. By Monday he'll be feeling just fine.

Frank lays down on his stomach on the couch, leaving enough room for Mikey to come sit by him, run his fingers through Frank's hair, ask, "Want me to order pizza?"

"Vegetarian Hawaiian?" Frank asks, sort of taking advantage, because Mikey's not huge on pineapple when cheese and red sauce are involved.

"Sure," Mikey says, which of course makes Frank feel bad and have to say, "We could go half 'n half."

Mikey laughs softly, twirls a hair at the nape of Frank's neck and Frank is falling asleep again, actually falling this time. "I'll figure something out, you just rest, okay?"

"Mm," Frank says.

Mikey pulls back and kisses the spot right above each bandage before walking away.

Frank calls, "You'd better be prepared to finish what you just started."

"Anytime, anyplace, Iero."

Frank would continue, but Mikey's couch is just way too comfortable to be helpful in the generation of good snark.

*

The thing that Frank sort of loves most about the new tattoos is that they aren't sexy, not really, not much at all. They're goofy and cartoon-ish and fit, both on his skin and as a signifier for him and Mikey. When they've healed enough to unwrap them, to let Mikey run his fingers—light and cautious—over the skin, he does, says, "You can have your spot back now."

Mikey doesn't take advantage, not right then at first. He looks at the now clean art for a long time before asking, "You maybe want me to get one? For you?"

"I want you to do what you want to do." Frank likes wearing his life in places where other people can see it, even misinterpret it. He doesn't worry so much about the meanings others assign to him. He knows his own meaning. Mikey knows a meaning that works for him. He doesn't need Mikey to adapt his ways to know that he matters. Mikey tells him by other means.

"Maybe not that," Mikey says.

Frank nods. "They don't hurt. Not now."

Mikey smiles. "Trying to tell me that if I—" he closes his lips gently onto the lips tattooed on the back of Frank's left knee. They are the Rocky Horror lips, all red and large, the bottom one being held by the upper teeth. The word "my" appears in the flattened space of the lower lip. Mikey lets go. "—did this, you wouldn't mind?"

"Something like that," Frank breathes.

"Or like this?" Mikey asks, running his tongue over the crease of Frank's other leg, where Spot the Dog now frolics.

"That," Frank affirms.

"I suppose you think you deserve a little something for putting yourself under the needle for me?" Mikey asks, still darting in and out with that tongue of his.

"Not. Deserve," Frank manages.

"Hm. That's too bad, since _I_ sort of think you deserve it."

"Whatever you say," Frank tells him, letting Mikey work off his boxers. Mikey pulls him back at his hips a little so that he folds up, his back curving. Mikey scrapes his teeth down the length of Frank's spine before plunging his tongue into Frank's hole.

Frank stops breathing for a second. Air returns with the words, "Mikey, Jesus, what, oh, oh. Mikey."

Mikey laughs and Frank feels it straight through him, down to his knees, where Mikey's got his hands folded, grasping on, up to his neck, his skull. Mikey sometimes gets it into his head to take his time and evidently today is one of those days, so Frank is keening—he would be begging, but he doesn't have the words, can't remember them—when Mikey finally rolls him onto his side and cuddles in next to him, hooking his knees in Frank's and sliding his cock in all the right spots. Frank comes back at him—he can give as good as he gets in this—bucks and writhes and just _moves_ never once unhooking their legs.

Amazingly, Mikey comes first, clinging to Frank, his short fingernails managing to dig into skin, saying things like, "For me, for me," and, "like this."

Frank doesn't bother to hold out much longer after that. When he's settled in the aftermath he says, "We should clean up."

Mikey tightens his legs at the knee just a touch. "Another minute."

Frank gives him two.

*

Brian says, "Look, I know Mikey's thing with Pete was sort of a disaster, but um, how off limits would you say his band members are?"

Frank blinks at Brian.

"You know, on a scale of one to ten."

"Did you break up with Matt?"

"Would it make you feel like the universe were spiraling out of control if I said yes?"

Frank nods. It really would. Brian and Matt are like Bob and Spencer without the age difference. There are some things that need to exist in this world for it to be good and pure and true and the two of them are pretty much on that list. Frank loves Mikey and he thinks he's a pretty good boyfriend when he's not feeding Mikey's issues accidentally, but if Matt and Brian break up, he's pretty sure it's just a matter of time before everything else falls to shit, too.

"No, I didn't break up with Matt."

"Um. Okay. Are you trying to fix someone else in the band up? Because we're all pretty much taken."

"Iero, seriously, could you just answer the question?"

"Mikey's more protective than anything. Don't fuck with the others or you're gonna see his teeth, fast and hard, and really, _really_ don't fuck with Pete."

"And when you say fuck—"

Frank says, "Oh shit, what did you do, Brian Schechter?"

"Whispered something like, 'fuck, look at all that hair, wouldn't you love to bury your fingers in that while he was blowing you?' to Matt and Matt kinda agreed and then, well, look, Troh's hot on his knees, is all, and not the kind of guy to get all fucked up about that sort of thing afterward."

Frank makes himself not think about that visual. It's too close to cheating. Then it hits him. "Why are you asking me about this after the fact?"

"It's possible that Troh is _really_ hot on his knees."

This is the kind of shit Frank could live his entire life without knowing.

"Brian—"

"Look, I just wanna make sure this isn't going to end with Mikey beating the crap out of me and coverage on MTV news."

As disloyal as it is, Frank is pretty sure Brian could take Mikey. "Not if you don't fuck shit up to the point where Joe starts pining. He's actually human in there somewhere, okay? Like, not that far in."

Brian says, "Yeah, that's sort of part of the hot."

"You— You're being— I mean, you talked with Matt, um. Fuck. You talked with him, right?"

Brian smiles. "Don't worry. We won't upset your world view."

"Better not. Or Mikey will be the least of your worries."

"I'm shaking, Iero."

*

Matt's grandmother always sends him the best treats, stuff with cinnamon and chilis and lime (not all at once) and it never seems like it should be good, except that if Mikey weren't pretty gay and really in love with Frank and a _lot_ younger than her, he would totally seduce Matt's grandma. Older women like Mikey. Instead he just makes sure he's really super nice to Matt so that Matt will always think of him when the care packages come in.

Still, it's a change of speed when Matt brings a care package to him and offers him dark chocolate with chilis, which is one of Mikey's absolute favorite things. Mikey says, "Am I dying? Because if I am, and they sent you to tell me, I mean, no offense, or anything, but—"

"As far as I know, you're not dying. Lollipop?"

Mikey just eyes him and the box with a stealthy, well-deserved suspicion. Matt sighs. "Brian sent me."

Mikey's eyes narrow. "He usually does his own dirty work."

"Would you stop it? It's not that big a deal."

"You still haven't told me what 'it' is," Mikey says pointedly.

"We've been hooking up with Joe Trohman. Every once in a while."

Mikey looks at him.

"For sex," Matt explains.

"Really?" Mikey asks.

Matt says, "Oh, fuck you."

"That's... Athletic." Mikey ponders this for a second. "So you and Brian—"

"It was sort of hot. And then, it was really, really hot. And then we started missing him and thought, 'huh, maybe—'"

"—this is more than hot?" Mikey finishes.

Matt shrugs. "Evidently even Brian makes mistakes. He totally lied to me about that when we first hooked up."

"You're _just_ realizing this?"

Matt rustles through the box. "It's only been a year."

"Closer to two."

"Whatever."

Mikey smirks. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Brian said something about you beating the crap out of us."

"If you callously break his heart, it might come to that," Mikey tells him plainly.

"We're _probably_ okay."

"See to it that you stay that way," Mikey says, and steals more homemade candy.

*

**November 2008**

Joe finds Frank and Mikey checking out all the furniture Mikey made for Spencer and Bob. Mikey says, "Hi," and hugs him and Frank says, "Aren't you missing a couple of people?"

"Unlike Spencer and Bob, we come in a detachable set."

"You don't see them very often," Mikey says, wondering why it is necessary to explain this. "They miss you."

Joe smiles. "You're sweet, Mikeyway. I know. But I've been meaning to ask if you really did threaten to kick ass and take names if I got hurt."

"I'm pretty sure that wasn't the exact terminology I used," Mikey hedges.

"He was a total badass." Frank is of no help to Mikey at all in these sorts of situations. Mikey has come to a place of being accustomed to it, for the most part.

Joe reaches up to muss Mikey's hair. Mikey ducks away. When he comes back up, Joe is still looking at him. Mikey says, "What?"

"They're the closest thing you've got to band that isn't band. And I'm just in your ex-boyfriend's band. So I guess I'm kinda curious—"

"Pete didn't mean—" Mikey doesn't look at Frank. He sort of wishes he weren't here.

Frank says, "Pete didn't mean to hurt Mikey and the rest of you tried your best for him. Tit for tat."

Mikey peers at Frank surreptitiously. Frank finds his hand and squeezes it. Joe looks down at where their hands are linked. "Still. We weren't owed, okay?"

"Wasn't like that," Mikey mumbles. "Just. Sometimes—" He squeezes Frank's hand. "Sometimes people who aren't really _bad_ can be kind of stupid or careless or...lots of things, and it isn't— They don't mean— Other people get hurt, is all. Brian and Matt are good guys."

Joe nods. "Noted."

Mikey smiles at him. "You're a good guy, too. Nice how that worked out."

"Nice," Joe agrees with a responding smile and saunters off.

Frank pulls Mikey into a hug. "The hurt doesn't last as long as you think."

"You knew what I was talking about."

"I'm not senile, Mikey."

Mikey makes himself nip at Frank's ear, Frank likes it when he can do that sort of thing.

"See?" Frank angles to kiss him. "Not so long."


	3. Good Boys by Arsenic

In the beginning—and it really is a bit biblical like that--Brendon causes Ryan's head to hurt. Ryan tells himself it's because the guy never fucking _stills_ , but really it's because Ryan doesn't exactly want him to, and that's like nothing Ryan has ever known before. Ryan hasn't trusted motion since he was four, and his dad came out of nowhere to hit him. His mom picked him up and took him away and it was all right, he was fine, thank you, but motion is tricky, and he prefers that others utilize it less around him. Except, evidently, for Brendon.

Mostly, Ryan just ignores the headaches until the day Brendon slings an arm over his shoulder and Ryan doesn't think, "Don't, don't, DON'T," and then it's a migraine that has him on the ground and there's nothing he can do except say, "Please shut the fuck up," to the other guys' frantic questions. There's the blessed cessation of noise and then, bizarrely, a cold, damp towel at the back of his neck, and without looking, Ryan knows Brendon has put it there, because he doesn't want to shake it off. A particularly sharp spasm of pain spikes in his head and Ryan can't help it—he passes out.

He wakes up in his room. Spencer is sitting at Ryan's desk, white as a sheet, Brent is looking out the window. Brendon is pacing, next to the bed. Ryan tries to say, "What happened?" or "What time is it?" or anything that might give him more insight into the situation. What he manages is, "Uh."

"Jesus Christ, man, you scared the piss out of us." Spencer looks a little bent out of shape about it, although not at Ryan. Ryan doesn't exactly blame him.

"We wanted to call an ambulance," Brent says, "but we weren't sure—"

Ryan shakes his head slightly. There's enough residue of the headache to make him cautious. "Nah." Spencer and Brent both know that Ryan's mom can barely manage the bills as it is. Brendon, shockingly, doesn't say a word.

Ryan says, "It was just a headache. Maybe I haven't been drinking enough. We live in a desert."

"You need to get on that, man," Brent says. "Having a lead singer who passes out is not hot."

"Having no lyrics isn't either," Spencer adds.

"Go away," Ryan tells them.

Spencer grins, "Attaboy, Ross," and collects the others. They close the door behind them and Ryan is safe in his bed in the quiet, early-dusk almost dark when he hears his door click open again.

Brendon says, "Look, man, I know I can be a little," and Ryan turns just in time to see his hands wave frantically, meaninglessly. "But I thought for a minute that I might have killed you, so if you don't like me, you could, y'know, be a little less dramatic about it, is all I'm saying."

Ryan says, "It really was a headache."

"You have them around me a lot," Brendon tells him and Ryan blinks, because people don't normally notice him, he makes it a point that they shouldn't, and he has never once seen Brendon watching him.

Brendon closes his hands around the doorknob even as he bounces on his toes. "I want this to work out. I like Brent, and you write lyrics that make me want to play music even when I'm tired and through with fighting with my parents, which is like, _all_ we do anymore, but you were here first and I totally get that, so if it's gonna be—"

"Brendon."

A pause. "Yeah?"

"It's not like that."

Even Brendon's breaths move, jump, take less time than they should. "What's it like?"

Ryan closes his eyes. "Not like that."

 

 

*

The Smoothie Shack isn't the worst job Brendon can think of having, not really by a long shot. His boss treats him all right and gives him good hours, and except for the lunch rush, most of the customers are pretty laid back. He gets free smoothies and discounted food, and if there are the packaged sandwiches left at the end of the day, he can take those home for free. It pays decently, but Vegas is an expensive place, and Brendon really can't do more than thirty-two hours a week, not and still commit to the band.

He rents a room from this nice couple whose children have all gone off to have their own lives. They're perfectly hospitable, provided he gets them the check, but he knows they don't get the music thing, and sometimes when they look at him it reminds him uncomfortably of his parents. He'd kill for an apartment, even a studio, anything, but they charge him nearly fifty dollars less a month than anything else he found, and his trash is paid for. Brendon spends a lot of time in the dark when he's there. He would ask one of the guys if he could stay over a couple of nights a week, but they all live at home, and Brendon can't really take that sort of atmosphere just now.

He wouldn't even remember when he first met Lydia except that it happened right after he caught a sinus infection that had him laid out for a week. The one he ended up having to go to the free clinic for, and forking over the money for antibiotics, when he was out a week's worth of a paycheck. Spencer brought him soup. He said, "It's from my mom," and sounded sort of sorry to have to admit to that. The soup had real chicken in it, and was pretty much the first thing aside from day old sandwiches, smoothies and fruit that Brendon had eaten in nearly a month. He said, "Tell your mom I _love_ her." Ryan brought him frozen yogurt, which was odd, but felt good on his throat, raw from swallowing more mucous than he was pretty sure any one person could produce on his own. Ryan looked like he wants to say something, but he didn't and Brendon was too tired just then to manage the coaxing involved in communication with Ryan Ross.

When he returns to work Lydia is there, a brand-new regular who looks like all the regulars. Brendon pegs her for a soccer mom the instant she orders the Banana-nana-fofana. She's nice enough, and attractive in that way that most of the regulars are attractive—a little too done up, a little too exposed, a little too everything, but it isn't precisely hard on the eyes. Girls aren't really Brendon's thing, but they aren't all bad, either. He lost his virginity to one, and the memory generally makes him smile.

Lydia asks him out the fourth or fifth time she comes in. Brendon says, "Oh, hey, I have a no dating customers policy. Sorry." He smiles his best, "what can you do?" smile. He doesn't have any such policy.

She says, "I'll pay for dinner," and her responding smile is knowing and just cold enough for Brendon to have no doubt that he should say no.

He's _really_ hungry. "When were you thinking?"

 

 

*

At first it's just dinners and Brendon knows he shouldn't keep accepting but she takes him to good places, not fancy, but the kind of places where the meals are large enough that they can last for two meals, possibly three, if he is thrifty about it, which he is. But Brendon has heard that there is no such thing as a free lunch, and he suspects dinners are even less free in that respect. He's a nice guy, but he doesn't think Lydia likes him for his tendency to quip from little-seen movies or ramble about the song the four of them are working on. He knows she doesn't.

When she takes him back to a hotel after one of the dinners, Brendon is neither surprised, nor particularly able to refuse. He goes to work the next morning, vomits in the bathroom, and gets on with things. Ryan comments that his voice is sounding a little raw, "You're not getting sick again, are you, man?"

Brendon says, "I'll be good Friday night." They're recording for Volumize. He doesn't want them worrying, wondering if he's gonna come through for them. He may not be able to come through for himself, but he's got them covered.

He tries to break it off, then—food's not really worth much to him if he's just going to sick it back up—but she threatens him with a sexual harassment complaint. It's spring, when all the snowbirds are in town and college kids are looking for jobs and Brendon's certain he could land something else, he's just not sure how long it would take, and if it would give him the freedom to play with the band.

Brent pulls him aside after the show on Friday, asks, "Hey, you need some money, because—"

"Nah," Brendon says, "I'm set," but he doesn't argue when Ryan buys him a coke.

Spencer drives them all home, dropping Brent off first as he's the closest, and continuing on to Brendon's place. Brendon looks over at Ryan who looks out his window and just says, "He's taking me back to the hospital. After."

Brendon hasn't known. Normally he has some clue, and his ignorance makes him feel even worse than he did the moment before. "You come by the Shack, I'll make you that apple-orange thing you like."

Ryan smiles at him, a nice smile, the kind of smile Ryan gives people when he knows they need kindness and he's trying his best, really he is. Brendon thinks if Ryan knew about Brendon's latest profession he wouldn't be smiling at him, but he doesn't care, because Ryan is.

Spencer walks him up to his door and says, "The thing is, all Ryan hears is the way you fucking mainline his lyrics, but whatever it is that's happening with you right now, just—"

Brendon looks at him, waiting.

"If you needed help—"

"You can't help with this," Brendon tells him, but he leans in and hugs Spencer tight to take out some of the sting. Also because he knows Spencer will squeeze him back, hold him together so strongly that there's no chance he'll fall apart, and for one second, he'll feel like maybe he deserved Ryan's smile. Then Spencer will let go. Brendon doesn't blame him.

"I have to get him to the hospital."

"Yeah. You gonna stay with him?"

"He won't let me."

Brendon wonders if this is Spencer's version of hell, turned away from the chance to aid at every corner. If he could ask Spencer he would. He would. He says, "Bring him to the Shack. Seriously. I have a double tomorrow. I'll do that pineapple thing for you."

Spencer smiles a little. "We're gonna make it, you know?"

Brendon says, "Yeah, 'course."

Spencer huffs. "Somewhere in there you know, or you wouldn't be doing this."

Brendon nods. "I'm just tired. Don't worry about me. Drive safe."

Spencer says, "Don't worry. Sure," and walks off to carry Ryan as far as he can.

 

 

*

Normally, Lydia is pretty easy to get off, which is a blessing in a situation not terribly full of them. Brendon can be in her, thinking about anything, anything but her, and all it takes is his fingers and some pressure and she's done. Until the day that's not enough, and Brendon finishes before she does and she just looks at him with a look that promises a job search without the single reference he's got to this point. Brendon uses his mouth, desperate, but that's not working either, and when he literally can't move his jaw anymore, he looks up at her, hoping the effort has gotten him somewhere.

Despite the fact that it really doesn't happen all that quickly, he never sees the backhanding coming. Her wedding ring slices his cheek open. He doesn't feel it, not until the drip of blood catches his attention. Then everything else hits, the sting, the dull burn.

"You are such a worthless cunt," she tells him. Brendon can only hope that means she won't require his services anymore.

"You'll be better next time, right?" she asks, a sweet, inquisitive tone to her voice as she digs one of her acrylic nails into the cut. Brendon nods.

"Say it."

"Yes, Lydia."

"Good boy," she pats him on the head. Brendon wonders if she got blood in his hair.

He tries to sneak in the house when he gets home, but Lydia likes to rendezvous in the middle of the day, when her kids are in school and her husband is at work. Mrs. Darley, his landlord, gets a peak of Brendon's face and says, "Oh my goodness. Brendon, what happened?"

Brendon shakes his head and mumbles something about a guitar string, even though he rarely ever plays the guitar. Those things are sharp. She says, "Come here, we've got to get that cleaned up."

He goes because whether he has a mom anymore or not, Brendon's been pretty much programmed to respond to that tone of voice. She sits him down in the kitchen and applies some alcohol to it, and Brendon pretends that it's the sting of it that makes his eyes water, not her cool, unassuming hand on his chin. She slathers the cut with anti-bacterial cream and puts gauze over it. She says, "How about you join us for dinner tonight? Or are you going to be at work?"

Brendon thinks about lying, saying yes. He has the eight to two shift, which he likes. The clientele will be mostly hippies, college kids and aspiring writers, largely too involved in their own drama to bother him much. He knows that Mr. Darley will ask him questions about the band, about their music, questions that imply maybe he should think about getting himself back into school, but Brendon needs food that isn't stale, or bought with his dignity. "That would be nice. Thanks."

When he shows up to practice the next morning, Brent looks at him and asks, "Freak smoothie machine accident?"

Brendon dons his best amused smile, "Pretty much sums it up."

He thinks he's off the hook until Ryan corners him later in the afternoon, and asks softly, "Who hit you?"

If it were anyone but Ryan, he'd say, "What are you talking about?" He has too much respect for Ryan to pretend like he wouldn't know, like he probably hasn't looked in a mirror and seen this on himself. He shakes his head, "Don't worry about it. You should see the other guy."

Ryan says, "I know that line as well as I know that look."

Brendon says, "It's all right. Really. I mouthed off. You know me."

"Not all that well," Ryan says. "But enough to know you probably didn't deserve that."

Brendon says, "I don't really want to talk about this."

Ryan nods. "That one's pretty familiar, too."

 

 

*

On his last day in town, Brendon sends an unsigned letter to Lydia's husband. He's seen her driver's license, knows where she lives. The letter is typed, and maybe the husband won't believe it, but maybe he will. Brendon doesn't think divorce is the best thing for kids, but he also doesn't think living with a mother who's a rapist is, so it's six-to-one, half-dozen-to-the-other, and Brendon springs for the fucking stamp. He's going to be in Maryland anyway.

He thanks the Darleys and Mr. Darley looks at him and says, "Good luck, son," and clearly means it and Brendon does his best not to sound choked when he says, "Thanks."

Mrs. Darley asks, "Is there any way we can send you anything? Four boys living on your own, I'll bet you all get hungry."

Brendon hopes she finds someone else to help with her clearly overwhelming empty-nest syndrome. He leaves town without saying goodbye to his family. They would have hung up the phone—shut the door in his face—anyway. He thinks. Maybe. No, they would have.

He's free, he's fucking free, and in the first two days Brendon drinks enough Red Bull to kill a not-so-small child and drives everyone in the apartment insane until Spencer sits on him—literally—for an hour and says, "If I get up, are you going to T.P. our rooms again?"

Brendon promises to be good. They are all giddy, though, even Ryan. Well, for Ryan. Which means that he lets Spencer tickle him once and sings in the shower and actually laughs at a few of Brendon's jokes. Brendon, who hasn't wanted to touch anyone in two months and seventeen days, thinks about wrapping a hand around Ryan's long, shockingly graceful neck but he doesn't, because he's made Ryan black-out before, and Brendon has his limits of what he can take from Ryan, no matter how fucking real the guy can be when he's trying.

Brendon doesn't fall that often, but when he does, it's always for the wrong ones.

Ryan, though, buys him another case of Red Bull—which Spencer has explicitly forbidden—and helps him find a place to hide it and says, when they're not looking at each other, tucking the cans safely out of sight, "I thought maybe you'd gone somewhere."

Brendon thinks about that. He can't really blame Ryan, not entirely, not even if Ryan really does have issues. "This band is my somewhere."

"Yeah." Ryan's breathing is short. "Me too."

Brendon already knew that, but he doesn't tell Ryan. He doesn't want Ryan to think he isn't listening. He doesn't want Ryan to think he doesn't have things of his own to say. Mostly he doesn't want to do anything that will make Ryan stop talking to him. With Ryan, conversation is almost as good as kissing at its best. Brendon remembers liking kissing before. He can do it again. Especially if Ryan will do it with him.

Brendon has always dreamed big.

 

 

*

It's supposed to be the four of them, one, two, three, four, but Spencer and Brent pull out at the last minute, largely, Ryan suspects, because they are assholes. Ryan thinks about calling it off, too, but he really does want to hear the band the club's brought in, and in spite of himself, the way that Brendon will act like everything is fine--shrug and smile the cancellation away--is something Ryan can't handle. He knows all about pretense, all about the things a person says to spare someone else guilt, and he's pretty sure it'll break him in ways he can't afford to be broken to do that to someone else.

Even Brendon, who gives him headaches. Even over something as stupid as going to a club. Ryan just can't. He slips on his vans and his most worn jeans and a t-shirt with a Billie Holliday LP cover peeling off of it and meets Brendon like he has said he will. Brendon's done his hair and Ryan's pretty sure he has lip gloss on. Jesus.

The band is good, so after a while it's easy not to regret coming. Brendon shows up with a red drink that he identifies as a virgin Tom Collins, which Ryan is well aware is another name for Shirley Temple. He steals some of it, mostly just to get at Brendon. Whatever else Brendon is, he's hot when he's got a little something under his skin.

What Ryan doesn't count on is Brendon's form of revenge. It doesn't occur to him that Brendon might leave off the girls—pretty girls, Ryan can admit objectively, hot in their retro, hip-hop, this-ain't- _exactly_ -the-forties garb—and say, "C'mon, dance with me."

"I can't," Ryan tells him. And he can't. Music might make sense to his head, but to his feet it's Greek or Japanese or something with letters he can't even discern.

Brendon rolls his eyes and tugs on Ryan's shirt. "So?"

Ryan pulls back, glaring at Brendon. Brendon is unphased. Ryan tries, "Any of those girls is more likely to get you laid than I am."

Brendon shrugs. "Not what I came for."

Ryan doesn't ask what he did come for. He doesn't want to know.

"Come on," Brendon says and he smiles the sort of smile that Ryan would bet good money doesn't get refused very often.

Changing tactics—since Brendon is a tenacious little shit, and this is already getting old—Ryan asks, "And what do I get out of it?"

Brendon doesn't even pause. "What do you want?"

Having not really expected Brendon to call his bluff—and really, he should have—it takes Ryan a second. "I get my way on the 'Sound of Music' reference. The chords I wanted."

"Done."

Ryan wonders if maybe he should have held out for more, but he isn't given too much time to think about it, because Brendon is dragging him out to the floor. Ryan says, "I actually, really can't do this."

"We'll start easy." One of Brendon's hands slides onto Ryan's shoulder, the other over his hip.

Ryan bites his lip and does not say, "Please don't touch me." He agreed.

Brendon says, "Hey. Look at me."

Ryan looks at him with his best, "what?" expression.

"We could just hold hands, if that would be better."

Ryan can't nod, can't admit that it would. Brendon's hands drop, catch Ryan's. Ryan takes a breath.

"It's just step, step, back," Brendon says, demonstrating, pushing into Ryan's space, but not too far. "Step, step, back."

Ryan tries it, and it's not as easy as Brendon makes it look, but it isn't hard, either. When he's caught the rhythm Brendon says, "I could spin you."

Ryan rolls his eyes, but he smiles as they're rolling. "Whatever, kid."

Brendon snorts. "Uh huh, o wise elder."

The spin is gentle, and mostly controlled by Ryan, and Brendon does not let go of his hand. Brendon says, casually, "You know what the number one rule of leading in swing or ballroom is?"

"Don't trip?" Ryan asks.

Brendon's spins him again, and when Ryan's facing the other way says, "Protect your follow."

 

 

*

Brendon isn't still when he plays the piano, of course he's not—he's playing the keyboard—but he sits and his fingers move, and he's so much the music, the music so much him, that it doesn't feel wrong for Ryan to sit next to him, press his knee to Brendon's and think, _it's like this._ Brendon smiles down at the keyboard and keeps playing. Ryan says, "Sometimes you hold back when you sing."

"Sometimes," Brendon agrees easily. Ryan was sort of expecting a fight, so he just stops at that, watches Brendon's fingers flow.

Brendon says, "Sometimes I think that if I give you everything it won't be enough."

Ryan's had it better than some people he knows. He has a mom who would have done—who _has_ done—anything and everything for him. Who likes to make Ryan's good fortune in that clear to him whenever the opportunity arises. His father has simply never tried. As such it takes a moment to comprehend that someone might worry that he would not accept what he was given, would not take it as it was meant and that if he asked for more, would not necessarily expect to receive it. To say, "It would," sounds trite, so he says, "The words make more sense when you sing them."

Brendon skips a note. The mistake is heartening. It allows Ryan to tell him, "My fingers always manage to make them words on the page, but mostly they're just, you know, screams or sounds or something inside my head. And then on the page they're not that, not really, not until you sing them and then all of a sudden I know that I've done all right. No matter what other people say. I've done. . .all right."

Brendon says, "Or maybe it's just that you won't expect enough from me. That I'm like all the rest and I just can't be counted upon."

For a second, Ryan thinks Brendon's ignored everything Ryan has just said. Then he catches up, hears the way Brendon has listened to every word. "If you fuck it up, I'll tell you. But you have to fucking try."

Brendon stops playing. He looks at Ryan. "For you, then."

Ryan says, "For the band."

There's a small shift in Brendon's expression, something that Ryan knows intimately enough to only be able to describe with one word: loss. It makes him feel like a total shit, particularly when Brendon wings a smile and says, "Sure. Of course. For the band."

And because until he has paper in front of him, his words are only sounds, inarticulate and entirely useless, Ryan tries something he has never tried before, something he would never have pegged himself as trying. He leans forward and kisses Brendon. He pulls back quickly. It is a soft kiss, a light kiss, an exploratory kiss. An apology.

Brendon cups Ryan's chin with one hand and says, "For the band, huh?"

Ryan tosses his gaze to the side, caught as his face is. Brendon says, "You don't have to say otherwise," and kisses him again. The kiss is equally soft and there's nothing expectant about it, nothing possessive. Ryan wants more. But that's all right. He knows this isn't everything Brendon has got.

 

 

*

Ryan should know it's going to happen—does know, really, but there's that space, that tiny, tiny space between knowing and _knowing_ , and somehow that's always, always where Brendon inhabits in his mind. Because they've been kissing and they're both teenagers and of course Brendon is going to want more but usually he's pretty good about letting Ryan take the lead so it's something new when Brendon grabs him right out of the shower one night, grabs him and pushes him until he's sitting on the vanity and without any warning, any foreplay, _anything_ , Brendon's mouth is on Ryan's cock.

It's perfect, beyond perfection, beyond what Ryan could possibly put into words or even music. But it's also his cock and that's a problem, because for all that Ryan has never had the choice of what to give and what not to give others, his cock has always been his own and until now, until this moment, he's kept it that way. It makes it all the worse that he probably could shove Brendon off, that he probably could send him sprawling. Ryan is small, but so is Brendon, and Brendon—unlike Ryan—never sees the violence coming.

Which is half of why he can't do it. Ryan can be all sorts of things, but he can't be his father, won't be. The other half involves the fact that Brendon is so careful with him, that despite the way his tongue and his cheeks squeeze Ryan to the point of breathless, aching pain, it is _good_ pain. It is the kind of pain that he knows won't escalate, will become pleasure, and that is something that until now he didn't know he would recognize. He's never experienced it before, so how would he? Except that here Brendon is giving it to him, and he does. Maybe he just recognizes Brendon.

He comes without sound, comes biting his own lips, squeezing his arms to himself. There is silence afterward, silence except for his own breath, his own heartbeat in his ears. Brendon says, softly, "Should I have asked?"

"I would have said no," Ryan tells him.

"I know. Should I have?"

Without opening his eyes, Ryan shakes his head.

"It doesn't have to be... I don't want to take anything from you."

"That would be sort of unfair, wouldn't it?" Ryan still hasn't opened his eyes.

Brendon says, "I know that you get tired by looking at me sometimes, but I kinda need you to look at me right now."

That's pretty fair, so Ryan opens his eyes. "You just have more inside of you than I do."

"No, I have other things inside of me than you do."

"I could jerk you off."

"Ryan."

"I'm just saying—"

"Shut up."

"Because that was a pretty nice thing—"

"It was a blowjob, and you really need to shut up."

Ryan can't though, he just can't, not with Brendon standing there, looking like he maybe believes that he was only good while his mouth was still on Ryan's cock, so he says, "You don't take from me. You don't."

Brendon asks, "Is that gonna change if I let you put your hand on my cock?"

Ryan says, "I offered," because he doesn't say things to Brendon that he doesn't mean. He just doesn't.

"Sometimes you're a little metaphorical, my friend."

"Sometimes I'm not."

Brendon takes Ryan's hand in his. "Okay, but like this," and he doesn't let go, not once.

 

 

*

Brendon's pretty clear on the fact that Ryan has lines that _can't_ be crossed. That's obvious. The problem is Ryan has all these other lines, flimsy ones that someone has to cross or they'll just harden. But it can be problematic to figure out the difference.

Brendon has gotten as far as knowing that one of the significant differences is the element of surprise. Ryan really, really hates surprises. So it might be fine for Brendon to stand at Ryan's side and put his arm around Ryan after a few seconds—well, Ryan will tense and take quite some time to settle into the touch, but he won't twist from it, or knock Brendon's arm away—but if Brendon just comes up from behind him to cling he's asking to get shoved.

Brendon thinks, though—and maybe it's not his right, but Ryan is his friend, is his...Ryan, so he'll just keep on thinking—that Ryan should know how to handle the shock of touch, should be able to acquire some level of comfort with it. He tries not to scare Ryan. That's not the point of this. He'll make noise when he's about to pounce, but he doesn't always give explicit verbal warning, and Ryan's angry, "Fuck _off_ " diatribes are of no discouragement to him.

There is the day he _does_ scare Ryan, though. He doesn't mean to, he's actually just not thinking, which isn't something he does very often around Ryan, but he's tired. He hasn't built up the endurance he needs and shows take it out of him. Not to mention, Ryan--for all that Brendon doesn't want anyone or anything else--is kind of high maintenance.

Brendon comes up from the bunks and drags a hand along Ryan's shoulder and Ryan _jumps_ while swearing more fluently than anyone Brendon has ever heard in his entire life, including his sister Caddie, who has quite the repertoire. Ryan turns really, _really_ pissed off eyes onto Brendon who says, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Ryan."

The muscles of Ryan's shoulders ripple as he contains himself, sticks himself back into appropriate places. Brendon wonders what would happen if he ever just didn't. For all the danger, it might be something worth trying to provoke. Ryan bites out, "Don't fucking touch me."

"Okay."

"Ever."

"Okay."

Ryan makes a noise of utter frustration and stalks back to his bunk, where he can hide. Brendon allows him to burrow for the time being.

 

 

*

Brendon waits a couple of days before trying again, before sitting across the table from Ryan, who has one hand stretched out over the surface. He says, "Ryan," and waits for Ryan to look at him and touches his fingers to Ryan's. Ryan turns his hand over. Brendon takes the invitation as it is meant. Ryan says, "I shouldn't have said that. It was stupid."

Brendon just shrugs and they move on, Brendon returning to his previously scheduled caution until they're making out one evening after a show and Brendon lets his hand fall to Ryan's cock. In fairness to himself, they are _making out_. This is not an illogical progression. In hindsight, he probably should have warned Ryan.

Ryan bites Brendon's tongue. Brendon knows he doesn't actually mean to, his teeth lift almost as quickly as they descend and the two of them untangle, Brendon's hands coming to his mouth, Ryan's to his cock. Ryan says, "Are you—"

Brendon waves his hand and tries to say, "fine," without the use of his tongue. Ryan looks down at his hands, as though he doesn't understand what has happened. Brendon closes his eyes. Ryan says, "Sorry." The word sounds small. _Ryan_ sounds small.

Brendon opens his eyes, shakes his head. "Nah, should've said something." His words are slightly lisped, but not so much that he can't be understood.

"You probably, um. Probably don't want to try again."

Brendon gives Ryan an assessing gaze. "Do _you_?"

Ryan looks away.

"Didn't think so."

Ryan's shoulders square so hard Brendon is worried he'll strain something. Brendon says, "I'm not mad."

Ryan says, "You should be."

"I'm not."

"Well, then. I guess that makes one of us."

 

 

*

At first, it isn't even conscious, the way Ryan curls into Spencer just a little more when they're watching movies together, sits behind him in planning sessions, knocks against him with just slightly more force than usual when laughing. He doesn't so much as notice until Spencer asks, "Are you all right?"

Ryan's a little puzzled by the question. "Fine."

"He isn't— Brendon isn't—" Spencer's shoulders tense. "You've kinda been shielding yourself. With me."

Ryan considers the words, the fact that they're true. And the thing is, Ryan isn't the type of guy who does things without reason. He never has been. So, "No, Brendon— He wouldn't." He wouldn't either—Ryan's pretty sure, anyway, that's one of those things a person can never know until he knows—but Ryan's been trying to do something with Spencer. If only he knew what it was.

He tries to pay closer attention to the times when he moves for Spencer, and sure enough, Spencer has noticed what he has not—Brendon is always, always there. Brendon watches, too. He watches but he never intervenes, never tries to pull Ryan away. There is something wishful in his gaze when he catches the two of them together, but he never mentions that, either, not even when Ryan and he are alone.

Ryan pushes because although it seems to him that there is probably a better way to draw Brendon out, to make him demand something of Ryan, to make him admit his newly developed rights, this is all Ryan knows. If he pushes hard enough, Brendon will eventually push back. He has to.

Only, when he does it's not pushing. It's pulling, Ryan supposes, if that. He says, "Ry, if Spencer's what you want, you should maybe say now." He says it quietly, in one breath, making himself look at Ryan.

Brendon is infinitely braver than Ryan. It is maddening and heartening all at once. The words, "he's not" are right on Ryan's tongue, right there, and he can't push them off. He says, "No," instead, and that will have to do.

"Because you kinda—"

" _Say_ something."

Brendon is silent for a little bit, and Ryan knows he's working it through, trying to get there so that Ryan won't have to do the lifting for him. Ryan manages to say, "Tell Spencer. Tell me."

Brendon nods then, slowly. "Take you back, huh?"

 _Take me._ Ryan bites the inside of his lip. Brendon smiles. The smile is tired, but it is the one he never smiles except for at Ryan. "Okay."

Ryan would like to think that he'll stop going to Spencer, stop hiding, stop waiting for Brendon to find him and force him into emerging. He knows better.

 

 

*

Ryan gets better about accepting Brendon's mouth on his cock, about letting Brendon pull Ryan on top of him in his bunk, rocking and straining and pressing them together until they've both come. Sometimes he can even let Brendon pull down their jeans, their boxers, whatever, to their hips and have the contact be cock-on-cock. Sometimes.

He gets better about accepting all these things, but mostly, unless Brendon's action forces the touch in some way, Ryan keeps his hands—and everything else—to himself. Until the day he decides to touch Brendon's hair hesitantly as Brendon settles in, opens his throat, lets Ryan as far into him as he can manage. He touches it and Brendon thinks, "Yeah, Ryan, good," until Ryan curls his fingers in the hair and holds tight. He doesn't even tug. There's nothing, _nothing_ violent in the motion. If anything it's uncertain, a sort of request that Brendon stay where he is.

Which is why Brendon hates himself for pulling off, for looking away from Ryan, panting, sick to his stomach. Ryan asks, "Brendon?" He doesn't sound mad.

Brendon sort of wishes he were. "Okay. Evidently you can't hold my hair. Touching's fine."

Ryan nods and for a second, Brendon thinks that Ryan's going to do what Ryan generally does and let it go. Ryan doesn't like talking about things, and he seems to think that if he doesn't press others, they'll return the favor. Granted, Brendon doesn't, really, which is probably why he doesn't get the courtesy extended to him. Ryan says, "That's sort of, um. Like something I would say."

"No it isn't," Brendon says, which is clearly the biggest lie he's ever told Ryan, except the ones of omission. Ryan just looks at him, a little pityingly, like Brendon is brain-damaged. He feels that way, a little, at the moment. He wonders if this is what it feels like to be Ryan.

Ryan says, "The thing is, even though I don't talk about it, you know the important stuff. That stuff I told you. Or you saw. See. But it's not like I don't trust you with it. I just don't like hearing about it. I did it and it's done and—"

"Yeah," Brendon says, "It's done."

"Only it's not."

Ryan has a point, because at least Ryan tries, which is more than Brendon can say for himself at the moment. He looks at Ryan and says, "You have to promise to let me finish this, even if you never let me touch you again. After."

Ryan frowns. "Promise."

"I sort of. You know how it was a bit tight, before, when I was working at the Shack?"

Ryan nods.

"I got an offer, and look, it wasn't like I knew I shouldn't, okay? I'm not stupid, not completely, but I was really— There's only so many smoothies you can drink, and I mean, if I never smell a smoothie ever again for the rest of my life it won't be long enough. So she offered to pay for dinner and I knew, I _knew_ —seventeen's not _that_ young—but I just wanted to eat. And then it got out of hand, which I should have seen coming, and I just. Don't like feeling like I can't get away."

Ryan touches one finger to Brendon's face, as though to test the truth of his words. Brendon keeps his eyes open, on Ryan. When Ryan risks cupping his palm to Brendon's cheek, Brendon slides his cheek against the touch, a sort of self-sustained caress. Ryan says, "I know it doesn't make a difference, but I would let you go. Let you get away."

"I know," Brendon says. It _doesn't_ make a difference. He asks, "May I finish, now, please?" and the formality sounds funny even to his own ears, but it is the only thing he has to hide behind at this moment, pitiful as that may be.

"I promised."

Brendon sighs.

"But I'll go back on the promise if you keep acting like you think I would judge you for this." Ryan sounds calm. Brendon knows better.

"I sort of whored myself out. Cheaply."

Ryan says, "You sort of made a mistake. Did something that was wrong for you."

"It—"

Ryan kisses him, stops his protests. "Even I know we all make mistakes."

Brendon says, "You really can touch my hair."

Ryan says, "Good. It's soft."

 

 

*

They've had a fight. They’re standing there and Brendon's hand steals its way inside the first layer of Ryan's armor, settles in far too close for comfort. Brendon's grip stays looser than it generally does. Ryan thinks about pressing into it, but realizes he doesn't know how.

Ryan can't remember what the fight was about. It was less than 24 hours previous and at the time it was clearly important—there was yelling, lots of it—but then Brendon threw one of the shoes that Spencer was forever leaving all over the place. Threw it away from Ryan. Away from him. Ryan looked at it for a second and thought, "Wrong direction," before he realized that Brendon hadn't just randomly flailed the thing wherever it would go, that he had turned and chucked it in a manner that meant it couldn't hit Ryan.

In Ryan's experience, that wasn't what people did when he was in the room and available as a target. He found himself unable to remember what the hell they had been arguing about, turned, and walked out of the room. And now Brendon is next to him, his hand there, there, but clearly unsure as to whether that's allowed, as to whether he was the one who fucked things up. It's ironic, Ryan thinks, but he doesn't really feel like writing a song about it. Not yet. That will probably take some more remove.

Brendon says, "I'm really, really sorry. I would never—"

"You threw it away from me."

"—never do— What?"

"You threw the shoe in a different direction. From where I was."

Brendon's hand spasms. "Yeah, Ryan. Because I was frustrated. I was fucking frustrated that you weren't listening to me. I wasn't thinking you were some sort of worthless shit who needed to be beaten into agreeing with me."

"It's a matter of expectation," Ryan says softly.

"I know," Brendon says, and Ryan can feel the way his shoulders sag, just a bit too heavy for him at the moment.

"It's not that I think you would—"

"Except you do, until I don't. And I'll give you that I shouldn't have been throwing things, but Jesus fuck, Ryan, I would never, _never_ throw a fucking platform Converse at you. What if it hit you?"

And that, Ryan thinks, is sort of why he's still here, still with this man's arm around him. Because hitting him would have been the whole point, wouldn't it have? Only Brendon doesn't even seem to know that. "I shouldn't have left."

"It wasn't precisely either of our most shiningest moments."

"Shiningest," Ryan says softly.

"It's okay," Brendon says, bringing his other hand up to not-quite-skim the corner of Ryan's eye, "you got your shiny back on."

Ryan doesn't smile. "I know you wouldn't hurt me."

"Well, you don't, but it's nice that you want to. That's something."

Ryan doesn't argue, because there are times when Brendon is actually just right.

"I'm still sorry I threw it, even if it reassured that crazy head of yours."

Ryan says, "Thanks, kid."

 

 

*

Brendon does his not-quite-customary holding of Ryan after he's finally convinced Ryan to fuck him. Ryan has done all sorts of things, but not that, and Brendon has evidently done all other sorts of things, but not that, and it has been awkward and fumbling, and Ryan can tell Brendon is still sore. It has also been a little bit secret and special and brilliant. Ryan isn't sure which parts of it have Brendon at his side, fingers confident and knowing in their curl.

"Heya," Brendon says, his grin almost disturbingly large. "You look like a man well-laid."

"Oh my god. Are you crowing?"

"Crowing?"

"Preening, feeling self-satisfied, puff—"

"I knew what it meant, I was just amused by your reference to Peter Pan, given last night's events."

"Whatever, you knew the reference, asshole."

"And yes, I am."

"You are— Oh. Crowing."

Brendon nods happily, moving his hips and his shoulders in a little bit of a dance. His arm stays where it is.

"You weren't that good," Ryan tells him.

"Thought you didn't have anything to compare me to?"

"I'm just saying, objectively."

"Sex isn't objective."

"All your Norwegian filmmakers would disagree."

"And I've watched the films. They're wrong. You were listening when I told you about that?"

"Not really," Ryan says, which is a lie, because there are few things as forcefully hot as Brendon being casually, lazily brilliant. "I have a good memory."

Brendon is still grinning. Ryan chances, "Did I hurt you?"

"Not in the way you think of the word 'hurt'."

It's such an honest, nuanced answer that for a second Ryan has to just think about it. "Oh."

"You think pain is always intentional, always an end. It's not."

Ryan can see the point where that paradigm shifts, but he can't follow the direction of the shift.

"You gave something to me. You don't normally."

"I—"

"You don't. And I get it, okay, I get that all of them have taken shit from you and you have to conserve what's left, but it was different and nice and yeah, I'm a little self-satisfied."

Ryan frowns. " _You_ gave yourself to me."

"Well, you have to give a little to get a little, don't you?"

But Brendon is always giving a little, and even if Ryan can't normally reciprocate, he knows it. Brendon asks, "Did I hurt _you_?"

Ryan doesn't really know what the question means, but he knows the answer. "No."

 

 

*

It's not that Ryan doesn't see the Brent thing coming. He'd have to be a moron not to and Ryan's actually pretty smart, he just doesn't like to talk all that much, which people confuse with not having much to say. He sees it coming, but there's no way when it actually happens, not to feel like an elephant with its fucking fourth leg missing.

Spencer, Spencer who has known him since before Brent, even—who at times brought frozen yogurt to the hospital, when Ryan should have just left, should have, but couldn't and wouldn't eat anything from the cafeteria, because the smell reminded him of sickness and decay—Spencer says, "We'll find someone else, Ry, someone better."

Spencer says the nickname quietly, in a room that houses only the two of them, so Ryan doesn't bother to ask him not to. Spencer has the right.

"I know," Ryan says. He does.

Spencer considers him. "I know you get left a lot, okay? I know. But the important people stay, Ryan, I swear they do. The rest is just—"

"Brent brought Brendon." Ryan says it all in one breath and there isn't anyone, _anyone_ else in the whole fucking world he could say it too.

Spencer says, "Come on," and walks past Ryan, clearly expecting to be followed.

"Where are we going?"

"Come on," Spencer says, and Ryan gets into the passenger seat of the car when Spencer slides into the driver's seat because it's Spencer, and wherever he takes Ryan will be safe. He thinks about asking where the hell Spencer got the car, but it's not important. They're in it, going somewhere, and those are the pertinent facts.

It's a ten minute drive before they pull up in front of a Coldstone and Spencer says, "I tried to find a TCBY or something, but they don't believe in them in this state. They at least mix the stuff in here. It was the best I could do."

Ryan puts his hands on the dashboard.

"I'm still here. _Brendon_ is still here. He helped me find this place. Kind of. He's shit with maps."

Ryan looks over at Spencer without removing his hands from the dash. "You told him about the yogurt?"

"I told him it was your comfort food. Pull the stick out, Ryan, seriously. The guy's been your happy place for over a year now, and that's just what I've calculated without either of you fuckers saying anything."

"Brent brought him," Ryan says again, as if it might mean something different—or perhaps just more—the second time.

"Yup, and Brent fucked him over, too. Maybe we should have invited him for ice cream, huh?"

"He's gonna figure it out, Spence," Ryan whispers. "He's gonna figure out that I can't say the things people need to hear, not with words, not just with words, he's gonna figure out that I'm not good at giving, that I—"

"He's not stupid, Ryan. And you're not as big of an asshole as you like to believe."

Ryan tenses, hanging onto the dash because he can't hang on to Spencer, no matter how forceful his commands to himself to just reach over the damn automatic gear shift are.

"Jesus," Spencer says, and grabs Ryan by the torso, pulling him into his lap. It's crowded in the vehicle and Ryan's pretty glad they're not all that famous yet, because he knows with his luck this would _totally_ be the moment some photographer found him—and wouldn't that be ironic, him in Spencer's lap?—but he's glad that Spencer knows when to call his bullshit, because evidently Ryan can no longer do it himself.

Spencer says, "Brendon and I are doing our fucking best to hold on to you. Walking away would be pretty counterproductive, don't you think?"

"I'm not going anywhere," Ryan protests. Ryan always stays. Even when he shouldn't, when everybody tells him not to. Ryan stays.

"You're not staying anywhere, either," Spencer tells him.

Ryan presses himself into Spencer a little, which is a feat, given how much they are already smashed up against each other. "I try. I will. Try. For you. And for him."

"And for this other person we'll find. You'll see. It'll be for that one, too."

Ryan doesn't believe him, but it doesn't matter. What matters is that Spencer will do his darn best to make it happen. For Ryan. He says, "Hey, I'll cover the ice cream."

Spencer laughs, "That's big of you," but he squeezes Ryan for emphasis, and to let him know that he gets it, that Ryan's fine just how he is.

 

 

*

The Brendon Headaches mostly go away once Ryan says, "The thing is, if you kissed me, I wouldn't pull away," and Brendon says, "Okay," because he knows better, by now, than to make Ryan think twice. Brendon tastes of Red Bull and Juicy Fruit, almost too sweet, but his hands hold Ryan's head loosely and Ryan actually likes the tickle of Brendon's breath on his upper lip, the slow, dancing quest of his tongue. It's not very Brendon-like, only Ryan knows that Brendon-like covers a range of actions and behaviors which don't really mesh, not at all.

Ryan wonders if Brendon sucks the pain away from Ryan in those kisses, siphons it between his lips, swallows it down. Maybe. Maybe that's where Brendon's voice comes from. It's partly Ryan's pain anyway. Why shouldn't the rest feed it?

The headaches go away for so long that he doesn't even really recognize them when they come back, not at first. He thinks maybe he's tired or dehydrated or a little sick, or any of the things that happen to people on tours. Except that his head explodes into _owowow, fuck, ow_ —and Ryan's really not a wimp when it comes to pain—every time Jon does something like give Brendon a noogie, or share a Coke with him, or put a hand to the small of his back to lead him in the proper direction.

It's not jealously, not of Brendon at least. Ryan appreciates that Jon knows better than to touch him without warning, doesn't often try to touch him _with_ warning. And Ryan knows Brendon isn't cheating on him with Jon. It's too often that Brendon will look over at him while Jon has a guiding hand is on his back, will roll his eyes as if to say, "Hey, I know which direction I'm supposed to be going," or will walk over to Ryan after being noogied and rub his now utterly spastic hair against Ryan's arm, his cheek. Ryan knows Brendon wouldn't do that. He doesn't think Jon would, either, but Jon is new and clearly, clearly wants to fuck his boyfriend.

There's a day where Jon lifts Brendon up onto the stage, just hoists him from the seating level onto the platform, alleviating the need for stairs. Ryan watches Jon's hands on Brendon's hips and the next thing he knows the pain is so intense that he's puking over the side of the stage.

There are panicked calls—he thinks it's his name people are calling, but he's really distracted by the pain—and Ryan feels Brendon's hands on him. He says, "Don't touch me."

Brendon pulls off, yells, "Spencer!"

Someone brings a bottle of water and hands it to him. He takes it and thinks, "I know those hands," because he's watched Jon play the bass enough to know, know them intimately. He almost refuses the water, but this is pretty stupid already and Ryan knows that in his mind, even if his head evidently doesn't agree.

Spencer comes with wet rags, and his calm, "Hey, Ryan, how you feeling?" and Ryan lets him touch all he wants, which is petty. He doesn't look at Brendon's face, because he knows what he'll see.

Spencer says, "Let's get you up."

Ryan goes up easily with him, because now that he's gotten the venom out, he's mostly fine for the moment. Spencer looks at him, touches his forehead. "You sick?"

Ryan shakes his head. "Headache. I think it's better."

Brendon's eyes are wide and dark and Ryan thinks maybe he should have just hit him, maybe that would have been nicer. Ryan thinks maybe Brendon should take Jon, who won't pretend like Brendon's as faithless and worthless as Ryan himself, who will get that Brendon has something worth keeping and know how to keep it.

Jon says, "Maybe we should call tonight's show," and he sounds ashamed. Ryan's embarrassed because he has to be so fucking transparent if even Jon knows. It would help if Jon would look at him with some kind of disgust in his eyes, but mostly he just looks concerned.

Ryan shakes his head gingerly. "I'll sleep it off on the bus. I'll be fine in a couple of hours."

Spencer says, "Brendon's gonna take you back there."

Brendon starts, "Maybe you should—"

Ryan overlaps with, "I can make it—"

Spencer just hands Ryan over to Brendon and says, "Brendon's gonna take you back."

Brendon's hands feel broken at where they close around Ryan's elbows. He lets one drop, going for the minimum amount of contact, and Ryan lifts the water bottle to his mouth, drinks enough that he can squeeze out, "Maybe you could put your arm around me."

Brendon blinks and his lashes are wet, Ryan thinks, but his cheeks aren't. Silently, he slips his arm under Ryan's shoulder blades and says, "Come on, let's get you to bed."

 

 

*

Ryan makes himself crawl into Brendon's bunk and put his hand on Brendon's chest. He can't make himself sprawl on top of Brendon, the way he wishes he could, can't maybe because he feels a little bruised and sore and it would hurt, but can't more likely because there's a chance Brendon might throw him off. He can take pain, but rejection is becoming problematic.

For a moment, Ryan lets himself fantasize about hating Brendon Urie. Then Brendon Urie pulls Ryan on top of himself, wraps his arms around him and Ryan is not as bruised as he thought he was. Ryan says, "It's not that I think you would. It's that I think you _should_."

"I know," Brendon says, his voice tired, his arms cuddling for all he's worth, "and there are a lot of things that are hella attractive about you, but your stupidity is not really one of them."

Ryan pulls away a little and Brendon lets him go with a sigh. Ryan wants to say, "Not what you think," but instead he just looks at Brendon's face, tries to see the damage he's caused. It isn't hard. Ryan has a scar on his leg from the time one summer when he was three or four that his father came home out of his fucking mind and started throwing all their crockery at his mom. She'd been shielding him and even so, he still has a mark to show for it. The marks Ryan leaves aren't as long lasting, not where a person can see, but he thinks they should be. Brendon deserves to have something he can show others and say, "See, see what he did to me?"

There are shadows painted strong and dark around Brendon's eyes, and Ryan remembers pressing a brush to those self-same spots, painting ink and color. That sort washes away easier. Ryan presses his lips to the line of bone beneath Brendon's right eye. It's not a kiss, not really. His lips stay there, intent, but he cannot finish the kiss, afraid it will not make anything better.

Brendon moves one hand to the back of Ryan's neck and says, "The thing is, Ryan, is that I passed the part where I needed something other than you and your stunted, scared, sometimes pathetic efforts about a million states back."

So Ryan kisses him. Once, twice, over and over, making sure to hit each spot along the bone, where the skin has become thin, penetrable, almost. Brendon says, "It's okay, okay?"

Ryan says, "I always said that about the shit my father did to me, too."

"Yes, but you are more forgiving than I am."

Perhaps in this case, but overwhelmingly, "I'm not." Ryan can hate harder and with a purer intensity of purpose than anyone he has ever met. Brendon doesn't have the stamina.

Brendon rolls Ryan onto his back, to where he can slip his hand inside Ryan's shirt and caress over the rib Ryan's father broke when Ryan was fourteen, and visiting him. Ryan has never told Brendon about that, and there should be nothing to give it away, but it is Brendon's very favorite rib. Brendon says, "You think you steal my voice."

"I do. For my own purposes."

"Then how come I never get to say I steal your words for mine? Words come from deeper down."

Ryan's not so sure. "Because I give them to you."

"Yeah, Ryan, you do." Brendon leans down and kisses him chastely on the lips.

Ryan holds his breath for a second. Lets it out with, "I'd like to give you something else."

Brendon narrows his eyes. "I suppose that depends on what it is."

"I wanna suck you."

Brendon looks at him, his gaze even. "Ryan—"

"Please don't say I don't have to. Please don't make this sound like some kind of noble sacrifice. Because you have a fucking gorgeous cock, all right?"

"I was going to tell you to be careful of your teeth."

He wasn't, but Ryan loves him for saying it. He inches his way down, finds Brendon underneath his jeans, licks boldly. Brendon's hands bunch in the sheets. Ryan says, "Yeah, yeah," and takes the tip into his mouth. The skin is slick and not exactly what he would have imagined, but he wasn't lying about Brendon's cock. It's elegant for something that's made so dirty and Ryan slides along it, feeling his way with his tongue. Brendon whimpers and the top half of him writhes but he stays so very, very still down below for Ryan and Ryan is careful not to choke on him, not to bite, not to hurt. This way, this way he can keep himself from causing damage.

He can't swallow. He tries but there's too much and it's Brendon, which makes it okay, but the taste is salty, a little bitter, and Ryan just can't. He says, "Sorry," and looks down, anywhere but at Brendon who gently tugs him up the bed and reaches into his pants, touches his cock—he isn't hard, even though he should be, clearly, but it wasn't like that, the sucking, it was hot for all the wrong reasons, maybe. Brendon says, "Ryan, Ryan," and patiently coaxes him to fullness, brings him off. Brendon wipes his hands on the sheets and Ryan says, "We should change them, clean up."

Brendon says, "In a minute," and sounds like he might actually be able to move by that point.

 

 

*

Ryan doesn't notice it most of the time, not anymore, but Brendon can be a little intense some of the time, moreso when a person is spending over twelve hours a day with him on any given day. Inasmuch, Ryan really should catch on that Brian Viglione is starting to get a little annoyed by him. Spencer evidently has noticed, just hasn't started intervening as of yet, because when Brian tells Brendon to, "Just fuck off a bit, would you?" in a less than casual tone of voice, Spencer glares a more than competent Glare of Death and takes Brendon off before things can heat up.

Brendon lets himself be taken. Ryan follows. Spencer rubs at Brendon's shoulders and says, "He's just tired, Brendon. We're all tired."

It's true. The tour is at the worst moment, that middle part where the adrenaline of being out on tour has worn off but the recognition that things will be over soon and they'd best savor it hasn't yet kicked in. Brendon nods. "Sure."

"Spence," Ryan says.

Spencer gives Brendon's shoulders one more squeeze before leaving them to themselves. Ryan sits down next to Brendon. "Hey."

"Aren't you tired of me, too?" Brendon sounds tired of Brendon.

Ryan shakes his head. "No."

"Pissed off at me for fucking up the tour?"

"I think Brian's gonna get over his snit and the tour's gonna go on, so unless I'm wrong about that, let's assume you haven't fucked anything up yet."

Brendon shrugs. "Brent told me to fuck off a whole bunch in those last weeks, too."

"Brent became an asshole somewhere between Nevada and the road and none of us noticed. That wasn't your fault."

"He didn't, Ryan. He just stopped wanting to spend all of his time with us."

"My point is, you didn't fuck anything up."

Brendon shrugs again.

"Here's what I don't get, kid. With me, it didn't matter if I behaved myself, if I was good or not. It mattered whether my dad had been hitting the bottle. If he had, there were consequences regardless of my behavior. If he hadn't, there weren't. So what happens? In your head, what happens if you're good and what happens if you're bad?"

"No, you're right, it doesn't matter."

"Except that for you it does. You think it does. So tell me."

Brendon looks away. "If I'm good I get to have a family. If I'm good the band works out and Spencer and you aren't hurt. If I'm good Jon doesn't leave. If I'm bad—"

Brendon curls himself up so tight Ryan's afraid he'll cut his own circulation off. "Tell me."

"It's— I was— Not good. That time. During the Smoothie Shack thing. And she hit me and she told me to be good and I kept thinking that if I was ever good enough that she would go away and I could stop and then we did leave and now I just— I have to continue. I have to."

Ryan closes his eyes and sees blood. He thinks it's a good thing he doesn't know who this woman was, because homicide would end Panic a lot sooner than any feud with Brian Viglione. "That fucking piece of scum-sucking filth. That fucking whore bitch cunt." Ryan can't stop the words. He's amazed he can stop himself after only two sets of curses.

Brendon laughs a little into his knees. "I was the whore."

"No," Ryan says, violence just sheathed inside the word.

"Ryan—"

"No. You were just— You were just alone. And she took advantage of that while we weren't looking."

"You were looking. You just had other shit to look at."

"So did you and you still knew about my shit. So don't make excuses for me."

"I'm just saying."

"She had no right, Brendon. Do you get me? She had no right. And no matter what you did, she wasn't going to stop hurting you. That was her— She was like my father, only worse, because it wasn't the booze that caused it in her, it was some sort of deep down evil, the kind you have to be born with. There was no good enough for her, do you get that?"

"You weren't there."

"There enough. And I'm here enough now to know that I'm right. Because you are good, you're so unbelievably fucking good and if anyone, _anyone_ in this world knows that, has the right to say that, it's me Brendon Boyd Urie. And you know it, too."

Slowly, slowly, Brendon nods. "I can't just turn it off, Ry."

"I know that, too." Ryan wishes he didn't. "But I'm never going to let you forget it."

"Don't you have a rule about making promises you can't keep?"

He doesn't lie to Brendon, not about this. "But not about ones that I'm going to try to keep."

"Can you please touch me?"

"You want that?"

"I'm yours," Brendon says, sounding unsure.

Ryan hooks his fingers into the collar of Brendon's shirt, knuckles brushing over, pressing into his neck. "Mine. And good, so, so fucking good."

 

 

*

The problem with having a father who loves you, Ryan has always found, is that no matter how many times he fucks up and says and does the wrong thing, it's pretty near to impossible not to love him back. Ryan can be pissed at his dad, can be frustrated with him, can even hate him for short periods of time, but he can't not love him. (Funny how hatred isn't exactly the opposite of love. Ryan would have thought it would be.)

His mom calls to tell him. He wishes it weren't her. She _doesn't_ have to love Ryan's dad, so she doesn't and Ryan just wishes it weren't her. She doesn't understand; she never has. She tells him and he says, "Okay, thanks," because there's nothing else to say to her.

She says, "Honey," but he says, "No," and "I'm fine."

Then he hangs up and gets online. He tells Spencer, "I have to go back to Nevada for a bit." He thinks he sounds good considering that he can't feel the entirety of the middle section of his body.

Spencer sits down and asks, "Why, Ryan?" but he asks softly, like he knows something is wrong. He probably does. Spencer knows these things about him.

"My dad died this morning. Complications of alcohol, blah, blah, blah." Ryan waves a hand. He finds a bereavement fare that works and tries to remember where he left his wallet. Probably in his jeans. Brendon's bunk.

Spencer asks, "You need me to go with you?"

"What? No. That would just be silly."

Spencer isn't obvious in the way his mom is about it, maybe even sort of gets Ryan's love of his father, but he also didn't much like Ryan's father. Which is fair enough. Ryan's father wasn't all that likable of a guy. Ryan wanders off to find his wallet. He ends up accidentally waking Brendon who blinks up at him and says, "You look like someone hit you."

"Yeah, well, I was getting mouthy," Ryan says, finally locating his jeans and feeling around in the pockets.

"Ryan—"

"Don't worry about it, go back to sleep."

"Ryan."

"I said don't worry."

"Don't make me follow you into the main part of the bus where Spencer and maybe Jon will hear."

"Spencer already knows." Ryan hates himself for saying it the second it's out of his mouth.

Brendon's, "Oh," is so small it's barely comprehensible.

Ryan rubs a hand over his face. "No, just. No, he was already awake, that's all. That's all."

Brendon nods, but Ryan can tell he's not convinced. Ryan reaches up, stretches his arm against the top bunk. "My mom called this morning."

Brendon just waits. He doesn't touch Ryan. Ryan can't even tell if he wishes Brendon would. Maybe. But it's possibly even better that Brendon cares too much to try. Ryan doesn't know. It's confusing right now, more so than usual.

"My dad—"

It was so easy to say it the moment before, but now that Ryan finds himself trying again it's like the second time might confirm something he doesn't want to be true. "My dad—"

Brendon says, "Ryan?"

"He's—" Ryan makes a nonsensical motion with his hand.

"Sick?" Brendon asks softly.

Ryan shakes his head. "Not anymore."

"Oh. _Oh._ "

"I have to— I was booking a plane flight." Ryan turns and walks off. Brendon follows him.

 

 

*

Ryan calls Brendon after the funeral and he can't even say, "Hello."

Brendon says, "Ryan? _Ryan?_ " then, "Okay," and doesn't hang up the phone. He's quiet for a few minutes until he says, "I don't know if you want me to talk or just sit here."

Ryan tries to say talk, but if he opens his mouth he'll cry. His breathing quickens.

"I'm going to try talking."

Ryan takes a slower breath.

"Okay, yeah, I'm gonna talk. Um, let's see. Jon's tried once again to beat me at Apples to Apples yesterday. He came closer, but I think that's because you weren't here, so you gotta get back, because there's some serious championship prizes riding on this. A whole _bag_ of peanut M&Ms and I think you know how I feel about peanut M&Ms.

"Spencer's going through one of his _24_ phases again, which might just be because it's hard to think when you're watching that show, but I dunno, I think it's probably because he misses Bob."

It usually is.

"I tuned your guitar. I know you didn't say I could touch it and you can totally steal my gummy bears when you get back, but it was looking a little lonely and I'm missing you pretty bad so it just seemed like the thing to do. I also cleaned the banjo up a little. I don't really know how to tune it, or I would have. It looked lonely, too, but banjos are sort of lonely by definition, I guess, so maybe that's just the nature of the beast.

"Oh, I saw this news story on CNN about a cat who chased a bear up a tree. It was pretty awesome, but I kinda felt bad for the bear, because can you imagine having to go back to all your bear friends and be like, 'no, really, it was a _tiger_!' Except it was just a silly household tom and it was on CNN, so you just _know_ one of your bear friends is going to find out all about it and then you'll have to move to a different bear community where maybe you don't fit in so well because there will be no living that down, not ever."

Ryan says, "Yeah, that would suck."

Brendon laughs and doesn't act like it's a big deal that Ryan managed to find his tongue, but Ryan can hear the surprise in Brendon's laugh. Ryan can hear Brendon.

"It's okay about the guitar, right?"

"It's— Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"Keep talking?"

Brendon does until long after he's hoarse with it.

 

 

*

Ryan comes back to the bus and even though it's just four wheels and some bunks, it's also Brendon and Spencer and Jon, and that's enough for him to think, _home_. It's kind of a stupid word, one that doesn't really mean anything, except that of late it sort of has, and he's missed it while back in Nevada. The irony isn't lost on him.

Spencer says, "I found a place where we can get frozen yogurt when we reach Salt Lake."

"I'm getting two toppings," Brendon informs him.

"Heathen." Ryan is a big believer in the purity of frozen yogurt. This is probably largely because his mom never wanted to spend the extra money on toppings, but he's not about to let details like that get in the way of his hard-earned snobbery.

"I've heard worse from people who would know better than the likes of you," Brendon says, thoroughly unimpressed.

"I like sprinkles," Jon says.

Brendon likes strawberries, which just adds to Ryan's complete disgust of the situation. "I suppose sprinkles are acceptable."

Jon laughs. Ryan curls up into himself, rests his head on his knees. Brendon sits down next to him, not touching. Ryan says, "Yeah, frozen yogurt would be good."

"We can find places at the other stops, too," Brendon says. "Every stop."

Ryan wonders if he'll get tired of it, if it will start to taste simply cold. He doesn't think so.

 

 

*

It is not that Spencer dislikes Pete. On the contrary, Pete is just fucked up enough that Spencer always responds to him with a somewhat instinctive desire to put his hands to Pete's shoulders and make him sit for a while, to listen, if Pete should ever decide to say anything real. Spencer has heard Pete's lyrics. It's clear he could manage it if he tried.

So, no, Pete is fine, Pete is Pete and Spencer doesn't generally ask people to be something more than they are. Ryan's infatuation with Pete makes Spencer a little bit sick to his stomach. Partly it's that it eats at Brendon in ways that nothing else does, not Ryan's reticence nor his pessimism, _nothing_. Spencer has tried to explain, "He lets Pete touch him because Pete can't touch him, not really," but Brendon just smiles with teeth bared and says, "I get it, Spence."

The worst part is, Spencer's pretty sure Brendon _does_ get it, and that he sometimes wonders if he can effect that in himself, if only just to get Ryan to stop running in place. Spencer would say to Ryan, "He's just a guy," but he's tried and Ryan has said, "He's Pete Wentz," like that's supposed to mean something to Spencer.

He would say to Ryan, "He can only hurt you," but Ryan already knows. So what he says is, "You're hurting Brendon," and Ryan says, "How is this new?" but it's not flippant. It's serious.

Spencer knows all of Ryan's defense mechanisms, every single last one of them; he watched them grow. "It's not inevitable, Ryan."

Ryan looks away. "Isn't it?"

"No," Spencer says, and maybe it is, but not like this.

Ryan sighs, and Spencer thinks he's going to walk away and he'll have to either chase after him or wait him out, but Ryan says, "When he touches me, I don't feel it."

Spencer's not surprised.

"I mean, I feel it, but— He doesn't want any promises. He maybe thinks he does, but he doesn't even know what a fucking promise is, you know? So it doesn't mean anything. And we both know it, even if he doesn't know he knows it."

Spencer has the vague notion that shouldn't make as much sense as it does. "You can't punish Brendon for wanting more from you than your dick, Ryan."

"It's never intentional."

Spencer waits.

"Maybe sometimes."

Another few beats.

"Maybe this time."

Spencer nods, once. "Brendon listens to you. When you tell him things."

"And what's he gonna get from this, Spence? Another message that he's too fucking good for me?"

"He's not," Spencer says, and it isn't automatic, it's fervent.

"Spencer."

"He's. Not." Spencer takes a breath. "And he's gonna hear that sometimes you need things he can't give you. And it will hurt like hell, but at least it will be honesty, rather than this shit you're throwing at him. _That_ he deserves."

Ryan presses his lips together like he's holding back more words, but Spencer knows he's just thinking. Finally, finally, he releases the pinch. "If he breaks up with me, I'm totally becoming your boyfriend."

"Of course you are," Spencer agrees gravely.

 

 

*

Brendon isn't touching Ryan when he asks, "Do you need that? Pete?" He has his hands on the piano, and he plays several chords, none of them really flowing from the other.

Ryan takes a long time to say, "Maybe."

Brendon wishes he could tell himself—and believe—that the pause is indicative of a struggle on Ryan's part, his ultimate desire to say no. Maybe it is. It doesn't really matter, because that's not the answer and at least Ryan's being honest. Brendon lays his forehead on the piano so softly it doesn't even trip the hammers. Two of Ryan's fingers touch at the vertebrae in his neck. Brendon begs, "Please don't," because he won't give Ryan what Ryan needs if he touches him.

Ryan withdraws his fingers. Brendon takes a breath and lays the words, "You should go to him, then," down on the ivory.

After a long moment wherein Ryan is so still Brendon isn't sure he hasn't disappeared, flitted off now that he has permission, Ryan asks, "Is this how this ends?"

"Fuck. You. Ryan."

"No. Right. I meant... I meant to ask if I could come back, afterward?"

"Only if you want to." Brendon wonders, briefly, where Ryan imagines he'd go. He wishes he had Ryan's imagination. Maybe then he would know what his options were.

"Brendon."

Brendon closes his eyes.

"It's not because I don't love you."

There are a million things to say to that. There is, "You suck at declarations, Ross," or, "It's not because you do," or, "Can I get you a fucking dictionary, so that you can understand that term you're just throwing around there?" Brendon stays utterly silent.

Ryan says, "It's not," and—being merciful for the first time in the whole conversation—pads off, his sneakers soft but audible against the ground.

Brendon stuffs a fist in his mouth and bites and thinks, "You're fine, Urie, you're _fine_ ," and ignores the way the keys are becoming slick, wet. He lashes out at the hands that curl around his shoulders an indeterminate amount of time later. Luckily Spencer is stronger than he is, and unflappable and catches his arms and pins them to his side. Luckily, it is Spencer.

"Hey," Brendon says, and his throat's a little raw and they have a show and he hates Ryan Ross, hates him. "Uh, can I?" He tries moving his arms. He just wants to wipe his face. Maybe then he can look Spencer in the eye.

"What did he do?" Spencer asks.

"Nah, it's just been a day." Brendon is actually a brilliant liar to everyone but the people he cares about. It's a rotten deal.

Spencer shakes him a little. Not hard. "What did he do, Brendon?"

"It was me. It was me, Spence. I just. It was me."

"What did you do?"

Brendon shakes his head.

"Brendon."

"Please don't make me say it again."

Spencer brings a hand up, forces Brendon to look at him. "Did you break up with him?"

Brendon laughs and it's clearly hysterical. If only. If only he could.

"No, huh?"

Brendon laughs harder, sliding to the ground and Spencer carries him there, because he's Spencer. When they're safe on the floor, when not even Brendon's knees are bruised—they bruise easily, bone too close to the skin—Spencer hauls Brendon to his chest and says, "Hey, hey."

Brendon clings because Spencer might not be what he needs, but he's Spencer and he doesn't walk away, doesn't ask Brendon to be more than he should really have to be.

"I was good," Brendon says, because somebody should know. "I was good."

"You are," Spencer says softly.

"I gave him Pete."

Spencer stills the smooth rocking rhythm he's established for a moment. Then he starts it up again.

"I was good."

"Yeah, baby. You were good."

Brendon tightens his fingers, aware that he might be hurting Spencer, unable to let go, to ease up. Spencer tightens his grip in response.

 

 

*

Pete doesn't need an elaborate invitation. All Ryan has to do is make it clear that he's waiting. It's so utterly easy, everything about it. It's so utterly fucking easy to smile at Pete and have Pete smile at him and say, "Really?" and kiss him with promises that won't be kept, can't be kept, because Pete doesn't know anything except that Ryan is saying, "Yeah, really."

Pete's hands are strong at his hips, if a little too insistent, his tongue is hot on Ryan's cock, if a little too frantic.

And when Pete says, "Can I, Ryan, can I?" Ryan honestly expects himself to say, "Yeah, whatever," because that sort of describes everything about this situation, but Ryan has never let anyone inside of him, not like that and it should be as easy as everything else with Pete, but at that Ryan's barriers come up.

They aren't the same barriers he has with Brendon. They are barriers Brendon has evidently erected within him. It takes Ryan a second to come to terms with the fact that he's never even noticed them before. In the past, he's noticed emotional impositions.

"Not like that," he says to Pete, and sucks Pete off, as dirty as Pete's always claiming to be, dirtier. He doesn't feel a damn thing, not even as he's shooting onto Pete's oh-so-talented hands.

It's only afterward that he can't breathe, tries and tries but it just won't happen and Pete says, "Ryan, Ryan. Ryan Ross!" This last is accompanied by a shake, a smack to his chest. The violence brings him back to himself.

Pete blinks at his gasp of breath. Ryan says, "Sorry," because he's feeling like a little bit of a loser, having a panic attack post-coitally with his sort-of, sometime hero.

"Jesus."

"It's not you." Ryan's fucked up, but he's not too fucked up to know that he shouldn't go around compounding other people's issues, and even if he wasn't, it would be pretty clear in Pete's case.

Pete curls up, tucking his feet below him, wrapping his arms around his legs. "Does Urie know you're here?"

Ryan looks at him. Pete shrugs, the ball he's formed of himself moving in its entire. "One thing I can recognize when I see it is fucked up."

"He knows," Ryan says.

"Wow," Pete says.

And yeah, that about sums things up. Ryan exhales. "Fuck."

"Why'd you agree?"

"Because I thought—" Ryan tries to quiet the fragmented lyrics in his head, to make sense of things in a way that will come together for another person. "I thought maybe you were what we needed."

Pete's eyes are unfathomable, but not angry. Ryan sort of wishes they were angry. "I wasn't trying to use you."

Pete smiles at that, in a way. Admits, "I wasn't trying to use you, either. But."

Ryan nods. "But."

"It's almost tragic. We'd be so gorgeously bad for each other."

Ryan's smile contains not a trace of amusement.

"Go," Pete says. "Tell Urie— Tell Urie he should try fighting for what he wants."

"He already does," Ryan says, because he really doesn't like people talking smack about his boyfriend.

"Then tell him he can totally hit me the next time we see each other."

Ryan wonders if Brendon would like that. He's never tried to hit Ryan, but the rules are so different between them. "I'll give him the message."

"Ryan," Pete says. Ryan looks at him. Pete stretches out, pulls him in, kisses him slow and hot and wet and friendly. Then he lets him go.

"Yeah," Ryan says. He sends Patrick to Pete on the way out. Just in case.

 

 

*

Ryan sneaks back onto the bus at around three and is busy tiptoeing back to the bunks when his peripheral vision catches on Spencer sitting at the table, and has to forcibly clamp down on a startled scream. He puts his hand to his chest and glares. "Fucking hell, Spence."

Spencer doesn't say sorry. Ryan asks, mild petulance in the question, "He tell on me?"

"He wouldn't have," Spencer says casually. Unlike most of the people Ryan has known, who give warnings, Spencer is at his most dangerous when casual, most likely to lash out suddenly, and—worst of all—rationally.

"But you know."

Spencer blinks, slowly.

"You know I had permission."

"The heartbreaking thing," Spencer says, "is that I get where that must have seemed novel, given the way permissiveness isn't a word I think of when I think of your life. But Brendon is nothing, _nothing_ if not fucking permissive, Ryan, and being allowed something isn't the same as having to do it."

Spencer's voice is so controlled, so perfect and even that Ryan tells him, "Sometimes it would be better if you could just hit me."

"Unfortunately for you, my name isn't Brendon Urie and so my ability to allow my world to rotate around you is limited."

Ryan folds at that, hunching his shoulders defensively even though Spencer is still sitting, calmly, outside of touching distance. Spencer asks, "Was it good? Was it everything you thought it would be? Did you write music while he had his cock in your mouth?" Each question has the same level tone, the same affected lack of judgment.

"Please," Ryan says.

"I just want to know that there was a reason I had to pick the pieces of my other bandmate off the floor. I'm not sure I found all of them, you'll have to forgive me."

Ryan says, "Um," walks to the kitchen trash—which is nearer than the toilet—and vomits. Mostly everything he has to vomit is Pete's and that's just so fucking apropos he almost laughs except that his chest is burning, his throat more acid than nerve. Spencer hauls him up carefully—even now, he's careful, his hands at Ryan's shoulders—and marches him to the bathroom. He strips him and puts him in the shower and says, "Wash him all the way off, Ryan."

"No," Ryan says.

"Ry—"

"I learned things." Ryan's not sure he'll be heard over the water, but evidently he is because Spencer pauses.

"All right. But you've done enough to Brendon for this round, so see if you can limit the damage."

When Ryan emerges, the only part of Pete that is still with him is a small lingering, cautionary hum that twinges just above his right hip, where Pete held on too long, too hard. Spencer has green tea steaming in a mug across from him. Ryan sits down and takes a sip. Spencer is silent for a bit until Ryan begins to fidget, waiting, and then he says, "You can't make yourself abhorrent to us. I know that you think it would help, that it would save us, but you aren’t Gerard Way, so leave aside the savior thing and just— Let him—"

"I try," Ryan says, low and fervent. "I _try_ being good enou—"

"Nothing to do with good, Ryan. Brendon doesn't want good. He wants messy and hard and brilliant, and I can't say that I always get it, but it's what he wants and on occasion I think you should try to respect that. Respect him."

"I do. I _do_. I'm just crap at—"

"Showing it in any way, shape or form?"

Ryan shrugs. Spencer's frustration is the worst, because all he seems to want is for Ryan to be happy, which Ryan thinks would be nice as well.

"Find a way to make this up to him," Spencer says, and it sounds vaguely like a threat, but Ryan's not sure, because Spencer has never threatened him. What he knows is that if he doesn't, Spencer won't have to carry through, because whatever he could do wouldn't be half so bad as the consequences of Ryan's own actions. He thinks Spencer knows that, too, it's why Spencer can make the threat. Ryan nods, once.

Spencer says, "Finish your tea."

Ryan takes another sip.

"You wanna stay with me tonight?"

Ryan's still damp from the shower, but he doesn't feel clean. He should say no, he thinks, because even when he doesn't, Spencer always smells of the desert and his mom's ginger snaps, but it's beyond Ryan not to say, "Please."

 

 

*

Spencer's already up by the time Ryan awakens. They're still moving. He has no idea where they are anymore. It doesn't matter, Brendon's the one who has to greet the city. Ryan squeezes his eyes shut for just a second longer, then makes himself move. Spencer's out in the main area, but Brendon isn't. Ryan goes back to the bunks. Brendon isn't in his bunk, either, and for a second Ryan's chest is tight with utter terror until he glances at his own bunk. Ryan steps onto Spencer's bunk, right below his, and crosses his arms beneath his chin, resting both at the edge of the bed. He watches Brendon sleep for several long minutes, watches the way his fingers clutch at the pillows, the sheets, the way he's tense, wound even in repose.

Ryan whispers, "Wake up, kid."

Brendon murmurs disagreement and begins to turn, but Ryan puts a hand to one of his arms. Brendon's eyes fly open and he starts to smile. Halfway in he remembers where he is and how they've gotten here and he says, "Oh, sorry. You can have your bunk back."

Ryan doesn't move his hand. "Does it come with you?"

Brendon seems to sink into the bed, impossibly tired. "Only if that's what you want."

Ryan says, "I get that if I were the person I want to be for you, I wouldn't ask for anything anymore."

Brendon knows him. "But?"

"There's something I want."

"You have to ask, Ryan. You have to ask this time."

Ryan nods. "I know."

Brendon waits, his muscles so tight under Ryan's fingers Ryan thinks they'll snap.

"I want you to fuck me."

Brendon screws up his face. "Ryan, I don't—"

"I know, I know that's not your thing and it makes you remember, but I'm not her and I want you to know that and I need you inside me if only just this once. If it's not good I won't make us do it ever again, I promise. I _promise_." Ryan does a lot of awful things, but he doesn't break his promises.

Brendon reaches out a hand, touches Ryan's hair. He sighs. "You got stuff?"

Ryan hops down, rustles in his bag and returns. When he comes back, Brendon has pressed himself further into the interior, made room for Ryan. Ryan climbs in, takes over the space designated his. He takes Brendon's hand and kisses the webbing between thumb and pointer finger. Brendon says, "Suck them, Ryan."

So Ryan takes the finger into his mouth. First one, then two, then three. It's hot, but not urgent. It's the part where they get comfortable with each other again. They don't always need that, but Ryan left and messed them up, so yeah, now they do. Brendon says, "We've still got our boxers on," and Ryan understands the implicit demand. He is careful of Brendon's cock, careless of his own and Brendon brings a hand to soothe over Ryan's cock as it twists free of the fabric. His eyes focus in on something and Ryan doesn't have to follow them to know it's the bruise.

Ryan starts to say, "We didn't—" but breaks off to moan as Brendon covers the bruise with his mouth, sucks hard enough to hurt, but doesn't bite, doesn't actually cause harm, just replaces the unintentional pain with some intentional possession of his own. When he's done he moves his mouth almost lazily onto Ryan's cock. He swallows Ryan, easy and smooth, and Ryan feels the first sob all the way up his body. He doesn't say anything. Brendon has the right.

Ryan pulls out when his heart begins to beat loud in his throat, his ears. Brendon turns him over gently, soothes a hand down the length of his back once. Twice. The first finger is easy. Brendon has fingered him as an adjunct to a blowjob on more than one occasion, Brendon with his long, smooth piano player hands. Another finger is just as good, just as easy. The third takes some adjustment. Brendon says, "That's it, Ryan, that's it."

Brendon turns Ryan on his stomach, elevates his hips, says, "Easier this way, okay?"

Ryan nods. This part is Brendon's, even if it isn't what Brendon wants. Brendon is slow about it, which is good, because it burns so much at first Ryan thinks he might ask him to stop, might fuck this part up too, but Brendon keeps one hand on the bruised hip, one curled up in Ryan's fingers. He connects with Ryan's prostate and all thoughts of asking him to stop _ever_ flee from Ryan's mind. It doesn't even matter that it's still a stretch, that he'll feel it all the way through the show. No, it does matter. It's better that way.

Ryan says, "All I wanted was you," sobs it, maybe, a bit. Not like Brendon's sobs, not relief mixed in with fear, just terror and awe with a dash of something that Ryan has no words for, not even lyrics.

Brendon drives in, presses his pelvis to Ryan's ass, says, "Please don't need to be reminded of that again. Please."

He pulls out slightly so that he can brush over all the good spots, the best spot and Ryan says, "No. Need you. No." He isn't sure what the second "no" means. He isn't sure he'll remember any of this when they're not in the moment, when Brendon isn't deep in him, all his, all his, nobody else's.

Brendon drives in with an intensity that usually only fuels his music. Ryan's cock is caught between himself and the pillow, friction on all sides and he wants to come with Brendon's hands on him, but Brendon's cock will have to be enough, because he can't wait, he can't. Brendon says, "That's it, Ryan, oh you're so good, so—"

"Not good," Ryan pants, mostly out of his mind, but there enough to hear Brendon.

"So good, so good," Brendon argues and drives in and holds on as he gives into Ryan completely.

When he can, Brendon begins to pull himself off, out, and Ryan says, "Don't. Not just yet."

"We'll get sticky."

"I know," Ryan says, and holds the hand that Brendon, tellingly, hasn't let go of.

 

 

*

Ryan can still feel Brendon in him by the time they climb on the stage the next night. It twinges a bit and Ryan, who has never found pain, even slight pain, reassuring, is reassured. The reassurance stays with him until Brendon gets into his full-blown stage persona. It's not terribly unusual for Ryan not to recognize that person, not to know that he knows and respects Ryan's boundaries, but it's worse tonight, because _Ryan_ isn't sure he respects his own boundaries just at this moment. And when Brendon challenges him, beckons to him, Ryan wants to refuse, to put his foot down, to say, "Not here, not now, Brendon," but he's already failed Brendon once this week and that's enough.

So he goes to him, he gives him what he wants, straddles him and looks down at where Brendon is smiling up at him, so fucking ecstatic that he responded, that he gave Brendon this—this single tiny gesture of recompense for all the times when Brendon has bent so far to him Ryan has fully expected to see him splinter, unable to reform. If Ryan doesn't get up, he's going to puke on Brendon.

He can feel Brendon's eyes on him, still smiling, still onstage, still Brendon, but Ryan also knows that now there's worry, underneath, where not-stage Brendon resides. Ryan puts himself in his fingers and plays until there is nothing else to play. He really should have written more songs.

He tells the guys he'll take the last shower and revels in the way the cold water hurts against his skin, pointed and sharp. He stays in too long and Brendon comes for him, wrenches off the water, with a, "Fuck, Ryan," and wraps Ryan in two towels—the dry one waiting for him, and the one Brendon has already used just for a little bit of weight, warmth. He pulls the dry one over Ryan's head and musses his hair dry, careful not to touch Ryan without the barrier of the towel. Ryan can't stop shivering.

"Gimme a second, okay? I'm just gonna go get Spence, is all."

"No."

"Ryan—"

"I don't need Spence." He wishes he could say, "I need you." He wishes he could. The words get caught on the vibrations of his throat.

Brendon wraps him even tighter and cautiously pulls Ryan to himself. He rubs his back, says, "Hey. Hey. Is this? Did I do this?"

And he did, but not in the way he thinks. Ryan has to find the words, he has to find them, because this is too big a thing to mess up, bigger, even, than thinking he could leave. "You were so happy," is what he finds. It's a pathetic offering, the same as all his others and the worst part is that he knows Brendon will take it in the spirit in which it is intended.

He does. "You came to me."

"I shouldn't have left."

"Oh," Brendon says. "That's what this is."

Ryan wonders, momentarily, if he will die from this shaking, if it will erode his parts and he will fall in chunks while Brendon struggles to hold on. Brendon tells him again, "You came to me, Ryan."

"You don't ask, you never ask—"

"I sometimes ask."

"Not enough."

"It's enough for you."

Ryan knows he's right, and for a second he wishes Brendon didn't know him so damned well and he could just lie. "Maybe. Maybe ask just a little bit more. Maybe push me."

"Ryan—"

"How am I supposed to change, kid? How? If you don't do this?"

"I don't want to change you."

"I want to change me."

"It's not the same."

"Everyone else is allowed to get better, why not me?"

"You're allowed, I just—"

"Push, Brendon. Just a little. You. Nobody else. You push."

Brendon slips one hand inside the towels, settling it over where Ryan's heart is beating so hard it's bruising the inner cavity of his chest. "Okay, Ryan. Okay."

Ryan closes his eyes, and coaxes his heart to slow under the touch.

 

 

*

There is a split second—and okay, Brendon feels stupid about it later, but it's _instinctual_ —after his dad calls him, and Brendon recognizes the number, recognizes but can't process it, when it hits Brendon what the number is and he picks up and thinks, _Daddy,_ thinks, _forgiven_.

It takes him less than ten minutes of talking to realize that forgiveness is contingent upon his seeming success, to realize that his own forgiveness is not so mutable a thing as he would prefer it be. Even so, he can't clamp down on his hope, his, "They'll see, they'll see," when they finally come to a concert, finally come to check out what their youngest son can do.

Brendon is so hyped that by the time he's on the stage he's tripping over his own feet. He tones it down about four songs in when he finally catches his own rhythm. Ryan would help him, he knows, but he's staying far the hell away from Ryan. He'll give too much away if he doesn't.

His parents are—Brendon has to think for a while to come up with a good term—politely enthusiastic. They remind Brendon of spectators at a golf match. He is sweaty and gross and grinning and he makes himself calm, because in comparison to their collect he looks like a wayward child. The simile is not wholly inappropriate.

The second time is better, a little. Easier. Brendon is prepared. He showers before he goes to see them, measures his smile to the right length. The third time—and there are only three, in over two years of touring, only three—he has it down, understands that when they ask about the new album it isn't a question about his artistic growth so much as the continued respectability of his chosen profession. He answers accordingly.

They don't ask about Brent. They don't seem to care to meet Jon. Brendon introduces him anyway, because he won't slight Jon like that. Jon is the perfect gentleman, smooth and polished and despite the fact that they've _seen_ him on that damn stage right alongside Brendon, Brendon can see the way they are impressed.

Jon ruins it—maybe deliberately, Brendon likes to think it was deliberate—by saying, "Yeah, well, it's Brendon who brings the soul," in response to his parents' compliments over his bass playing. Brendon doesn't want him to press, but the support isn't unappreciated.

Ryan stays far away. Ryan has rage issues. He thinks Brendon doesn't notice. Brendon notices. But when Brendon finds him later, asks, "Wanna see if we can find a frozen yogurt joint?" Ryan says, "That's my comfort thing."

"What, I can't borrow?"

"I meant—"

"I know," Brendon tells him. "I know. But I'd like to borrow."

"You can have."

 

 

*

The first time Ryan met Brendon, he was wearing a cross. It was hidden under layers of prep-goth clothing, but it was there. Ryan is pretty sure he wasn't supposed to have seen it. Ryan is pretty sure Brendon was wearing it more out of habit than faith by that time. When Brendon was kicked out, he left the cross at his parents' house, along with just about everything else. Unlike the other stuff, Ryan imagines that part felt good.

Brendon doesn't go to church, doesn't say grace before meals, takes the lord's name in vain regularly and with a certain amount of relish. Occasionally, in the moments where Brendon is most nervous or upset or hopeful, Ryan will look over and see his lips moving. Ryan thinks that Brendon still prays. Like the cross, Ryan suspects this is more habit than belief, but it is a telling habit, and one that makes Ryan pay attention to other things about Brendon.

For instance, when Brendon would come over to Ryan's house in high school he would always, _always_ clean up after himself, even if he only had a drink of water. In the past year and a half, Brendon has progressed to cleaning up after others, too, when in a house that includes a mother. He always cleans his plate, too. Even when it's food he doesn't like. Ryan has watched him choke down the tomatoes in a salad because Mrs. Smith put them on his plate, unaware of his distaste. It's hard to know when he won't say anything, just eats them up.

It's not just parents, either. Sometimes Spencer will be high off a set, will drape himself over Brendon and say, "Fire, Urie, you were on fucking fire," and Brendon will beam so hard Ryan has to squint. He doesn't look away, not when Brendon is like that. It's hard to know when there will be a next time.

At a moment when Brendon is simply Brendon, too much energy and too many words and too everything—although, just enough for Ryan, if he's being terribly, fiercely honest—he asks, "Why do you need other people's approval?"

Brendon says, "We all need other people's approval, just look at you and Pete."

That's fair, but Ryan knows Brendon is aware of what he was asking and just doesn't want to answer. "You more than most."

"Nuh uh," Brendon says.

Ryan knows this tactic. He does not respond, "Uh huh." He says, "You do. You like it when Jon tells you you're good, and when Spencer thinks you did well. You like those things. You crave them."

Brendon shrugs. "So I like people to think I've done well. Seriously, Ryan, who the hell doesn't?"

"You need it."

Brendon opens his mouth, and Ryan wonders for a second if Brendon's going to lie to him, and if he does, if it will be automatic, something he can't help, or calculated. Then Brendon stops himself. Ryan says, "It's not— I just worry. You're— The way you are is the person I-- It's mine."

Brendon, amazingly, gets what he's trying to say. "I need your opinion as much as any of theirs, Ryan. More."

That's reassuring, but still, Ryan has to know, "Is it— Did your parents do this?"

"Yeah," Brendon says, and it's a lie, Ryan can tell by the way Brendon's eyes flicker to the side for the barest of moments. Ryan also knows he's not going to get anything else from him, not just now.

"Okay," Ryan says, reaching out to steal Brendon's hand, press the palm to his lips. He mouths the words, "good boy," against the skin, but doesn't say them aloud.

 

 

*

Among other things, Ryan is good at fucking up the things he most cares about. Brendon realizes that this comes from an abundance of caution, and a good dousing of defensiveness, but it's a useful thing to know, and helps him out when Ryan says, "I think, maybe, you should give Jon what he wants."

Brendon isn't stupid, he knows exactly what Ryan's talking about, but he thinks that if Ryan's going to make a statement that amazingly asshole-ish, he should have to say the words. "More flip-flops? What are we talking about?"

Ryan glares at him. Brendon gives him his very best, "Did I do something?" look.

"I'm not the only one who sees the way he sometimes—"

Brendon does not save him.

"He wants to touch you."

"Yes. But you're my _boyfriend_. And unless there was a fairly important conversation that I missed, we're monogamous. I didn't miss that conversation, did I?"

Ryan says, "Don't be an asshole."

Brendon thinks that's pretty rich. "He doesn't get to touch me, Ryan. Only you get to touch me. I don't care what he wants."

"I care," Ryan says.

"No, you just care that you can continue to think of me as that guy who sleeps in the bunk next to you who will eventually hop into some other guy's arms."

Ryan takes a step back at that. Brendon's pretty sure he doesn't know he's doing it. Brendon shakes his head and starts to walk away, since he's pretty done for the moment, but Ryan says, "I— I'm not saying that I don't worry. About that. But this isn't— He's Jon, Brendon. He came and made us four again." The word "four" sounds like "whole" on Ryan's tongue, but Brendon knows he doesn't have the latter in his vocabulary.

"And you're Ryan."

Ryan blinks. Brendon wonders if he ever hears his name like that in his head, because Brendon knows how it sounds, knows he can never completely keep the slight awe and deep-running care from his voice. "No," Brendon tells him.

"I thought, maybe, if I watched, because he's unafraid, Jon, utterly unafraid, and I thought, maybe, if I saw you like that, I could—"

And of course that would be the argument Brendon can't completely throw off. "What if he wants more, Ryan?"

"I don't know. Sometimes I don't think that far."

And sometimes Ryan thinks too far and Brendon can't tell if there's a pattern or if it's when Ryan knows that he needs things desperately regardless of consequence that he won't, _won't_ think about them. "What if he wants more and we can't give him that and he leaves too?"

Ryan admits, almost so softy that Brendon can't hear, "I think I need to know that, too."

There have been a million times when Brendon has known how very deep in trouble he is with Ryan Ross, but this moment, here, when he knows that Ryan is being unintentionally cruel and also knows that he won't stop him--will be party to that cruelty--this is when he says, as a statement of cold, bitter fact, "I love you, Ryan."

 

 

*

Brendon knows he's gotten too used to talking with Ryan, who takes cunning and caution and calm, when it doesn't just occur to him to go to Jon and say, "Look, this is how things are," because when he next sees Jon, it's so obviously, well, obvious. He buys Jon a drink and says, "I need a favor."

Jon doesn't say, "anything," he doesn't, in fact, say anything at all, and Brendon gets that he's supposed to already know that's the answer.

Brendon says, "Ryan, um—"

"I really try not to look."

Brendon sort of had a speech planned, and this interruption was not part of it, so he asks, "What?"

"At you. I know all about his thing and how he's so sure nothing's gonna last for him and I'm not trying to give him a complex. Although, somebody should point out to him that nobody in their right fucking mind is gonna sleep with me over him. Maybe you should do that."

Brendon asks, "You think I haven't tried that once or twice? I mean, not about you. Just—"

"I'll do better, okay?"

Brendon reaches over and takes Jon's blue label from him. He doesn't even like the stuff, it burns going down and tastes like paint peeler for hours, but he's not going to say this without some help, he's just not. He bolts it.

"Whoa. Bren." Jon takes the glass and rubs Brendon's back as he hacks and gasps. Brendon signals for another. Jon says, "Uh, no."

Brendon says, "For you. Replacement."

"Let's lay off having it anywhere near you for a couple of minutes, yeah?"

Brendon finally manages to take a breath and that's when the full force of the alcohol begins to hit. He takes advantage of it, because if he waits, he might wait a long, long time. "Ryan wants you to fuck me."

"Yeah, okay, I was gonna be gallant here, but fuck that." He puts that drink Brendon has ordered him down as quickly as Brendon did his, but without the dramatics. "And you _agree_?"

"Agree is a strong word."

"Give me a better one."

Brendon thinks about it. "Sometimes," he says slowly, "sometimes I have to trust him to know what he needs, even though he doesn't most of the time. When he does, he does. And in this case, I have to trust you to work with me, to be you and help him and not hate us at the end of all of it, which is just within my capabilities, I think, but I'm freaking out a little."

Jon looks at the once-again-empty glass. "Little."

Brendon shrugs.

"Do I get a question?"

"Ironically, I'm pretty sure you get anything you ask for."

"Do you want me?"

Brendon says, "I suppose that depends on the context of the question."

"Physically. I know who owns you, Urie."

"If you've been so busy watching me, how can you not notice what happens when I look at you while we're out there?"

"That's a stage thing."

"It's nice that you and Ryan think there's some sort of remove."

"It's fucked up that you don't."

Brendon knows. It's the least of his worries.

"I get to do whatever I want?"

"You can't hold me down," Brendon says. "Nothing personal, I just don't take well to it."

"Short of that, though?"

Brendon nods. "Your game."

Jon laughs shortly, "Game, huh?"

 

 

*

Jon comes to them, even though, in Brendon's head, it's only fair that it happen the other way around, that they allow Jon his territory if they are going to allow him nothing else. Brendon doesn't really think he counts as something. Not given the situation. He's left everything with Ryan long ago.

Jon says, "Sit, Ry," and puts Ryan in a chair by the curtained window.

Ryan says, "Ryan."

Jon raises an eyebrow. "Sit and shut up, yeah?" It's actually a question. Ryan agrees. Brendon thinks that somewhere inside Ryan, he knows he's in the wrong. He just can't make that matter more than his need to— Need for something. Maybe his need to screw up so completely he can't fix it and have it be fixed anyway. For once, Brendon validly doesn't know. He just knows that if they don't do this, don't pass Ryan's test, nothing else will matter, at least not for him.

Jon kisses him and Brendon laps a bit at the faint remnants of the glass of straight Jack he probably had before coming to them. Brendon really can't blame him. It is neither as sharp nor as dangerous on Jon as it is in the bottle. Jon says, "Easy, gorgeous," and sinks his teeth into the meat of Brendon's shoulder.

Brendon looks over Jon's head to where Ryan is watching, his eyes burning with something that is not quite passion and not wholly fear. Jon's undoing his pants—the only thing he wore over—and Brendon says, "I could—"

Jon finishes, "Suck me?" and it's not hopeful, it's knowing. Brendon slips to his knees, careful of himself, feeling the way he does when he dances on stage—aware that people are watching, aware that grace is an attribute. He has always, always wanted Ryan to see him as beautiful, in every way.

Jon leans against the wall and Brendon takes him in. It's not delicate, Jon wouldn't want that. It's dedicated and skilled and everything Brendon has made himself for Ryan. Brendon barely hears Jon's, "Up, up, come on, up," even though it's said aloud, said clearly.

Jon bends a bit and catches him up underneath his arms and brings him to his feet. He kisses him again and says, "There's stuff in my jeans pocket."

Brendon fetches. Jon says, "Put it on me," and Brendon does, rolling the condom along the shaft, maybe teasing Jon a bit with his application of the lube. Jon is enthusiastic about him in ways that Ryan maybe is, maybe, inside his head, but can never say, can never even express. It is just this once. Brendon doesn't plan to take it for granted.

Jon spins him so that he's facing Ryan, fucking _threads_ Brendon onto his cock and Brendon can't do anything but lean in, sink onto him. He's barely got his feet on the ground, nothing but the strength of Jon's arms, that solidity, keeping him up. It's at this thought that Jon does the unthinkable and says, "C'mere, Ry."

Ryan is too distracted to contest the nickname. "That wasn't part of the deal."

"Au contraire," Jon is all-but-growling, his lips brushing at Brendon's ear and if Jon doesn't move, Brendon is actually going to die, right here, on Jon's cock. Publicity nightmare.

"I was told I could have anything."

Brendon tries to say, "From me," but he can't because, okay, now that he's thinking about it, that was implied but he probably didn't specify because Jon seemed so, well, aware.

Ryan looks at Brendon. "Brendon?"

"Jon," Brendon says.

Jon says, "You told me you could trust me. That it stretched your limits. But that you could."

Brendon takes a breath. "C'mere, Ry."

Brendon has known for a long time, that it wasn't just an ego boost or good blow jobs for Ryan, he has. But he has not known, not really, not until this moment, that Ryan loves him. He must, though, because he comes. Jon says, "Tell him to take his clothes off."

"I want to see you." Jon drives in just the tiniest bit further, further than should be possible and Brendon _begs_ , "Fuck, Ryan, please."

Ryan tosses his shirt aside and shucks off the drawstring pants that were already hanging indecently from his coat-hanger hips. Jon says, "Neither of us is going to fuck with you, Ryan," and it's a funny choice of words, but better than, "hurt you," because pain is sometimes inevitable, and it's a bad thing to promise avoidance of.

Jon reaches out and catches Ryan's wrists. He holds them loosely until Ryan stops looking like he wants to struggle. Then he tugs a bit, and Ryan falls into Brendon, both of them now supported by Jon and his wall. Ryan's cock—pretty interested in the proceedings—crushes into Brendon's and it hurts like nothing Brendon has ever wanted, _wanted_ and Ryan gasps and Brendon says, "Don't pull away, please, Ryan, please don't."

Ryan says, "Sh, Brendon. Sh."

Jon's hands are now resting lightly over Ryan's forearms, exerting just enough pressure to keep him balanced, not caught. Under the touch, Ryan is still shivering slightly, but it's more instinct than emotion Brendon thinks, given the excited hitch of Ryan's breath against his collarbone. Jon moves then, really moves and Brendon is driven into, nearly inside, Ryan. Jon moves back, and Ryan is falling into him.

It's like a metaphor, Brendon's pretty sure, but his brain is too full of, "yes, please, oh so good, oh so yes, yes, please," to really follow the thought. Brendon screams when Jon says his name in his ear, says, "so fucking delicious," and licks him from shoulder to ear and Ryan says, "Mine," softly, intently. Brendon screams, "Yours," and comes, and it's almost too much in the aftermath, when he's limp and loose and every nerve is standing on its utmost end, for Ryan to still be having nothing but Jon and him to hold to, for Jon to still be playing Brendon like his fucking bass.

Jon pulls him back so far Brendon thinks Jon might go straight through him, to Ryan. Jon gasps and comes and Ryan, Ryan who always takes longer than maybe he should, who seems to hold on to things that Brendon can't see, like maybe the answer is in that moment, that moment before he gives into his own pleasure-seeking weakness, Ryan comes so hard that Brendon has to catch him in his arms, make sure he doesn't tumble to the ground.

Jon helps.

 

 

*

Jon herds Brendon into bed, careful that Brendon has Ryan and he even pulls the covers up over them and is turning to go when Brendon catches his wrist. Jon looks like he still thinks it best that he go, but then Ryan reaches out, his fingers landing tentatively over Jon's forearm. Jon slides in next to Brendon. The bed isn't really meant for three men, but they're all pretty small and Brendon works to make himself even smaller, to ensure that Ryan and Jon both have room. He falls asleep—and wakes up—to the constant, steady beat of Jon's heart at his back.

When he wakes up Ryan is watching him, eyes large and frightened and kind in the dark. Brendon asks, "Have you slept at all?"

Ryan shakes his head. "Why'd he do that, Bren?"

Brendon knows, but he doesn't think just being told the answer is going to help Ryan any, not if he has to ask. "What did you want, Ry?"

"I don't—

Brendon rephrases. Ryan's right, that wasn't fair. "What did you think you wanted?"

"It doesn't make sense."

"Take a chance that I know you well enough to get it anyway."

"For you to see how good it could be with someone who can— someone who knows how to be a person. And for you to still want me more. For Jon to know that. For Jon to have enough of what he wanted that he would stay, not go looking for a band that could give him all of what he wanted."

"Have you ever known anyone who had exactly what they wanted?"

"No, but I've known plenty of people who kept looking."

"I know this isn't really one of your strong points, but Jon just fucking sewed you and me back together without the help of string, so try to stop underestimating him for fifteen minutes, all right?" Brendon isn't mad. He's tired, through and through.

"Why'd he— He was just supposed to enjoy himself."

"Hard to do with you sitting there, waiting for us both to turn in on each other and shut you out, forget you were there, forget that your desires, hopes, dreams, nightmares, whatever, existed."

"It should have been easy, I thought, it should have—"

"And what do you think now?"

Ryan opens his mouth. Shuts it. He is silent for a long time. "He was as good as I thought he would be, and you still begged for me."

"Always."

"And he stayed with us."

"Because we asked."

"Because we asked," Ryan echoes and his tone spills over with terror. Brendon can't help brushing a lock of hair back from Ryan's eyes, soothing him with a kiss to the corner of his eye.

"It doesn't always have to be words, Ry. I swear I'm listening."

"When you asked him, did you—"

"All I told him was that he could do anything. That was all. I thought he knew I meant to me."

"Then he just—"

"Knew what we needed."

Ryan's eyes glow pale and wet in the oncoming dawn, but his cheeks are dry. "Spencer's gonna be so pissed."

Yeah. Which means he's totally going to take Brendon to task, because Spencer can stay mad at Ryan for a whole nine minutes and twenty-eight seconds on his best of days. Brendon knows, he got a watch with a second hand for just that purpose. "I'm not taking the fall for you on that one."

"Even if I asked?"

"You find the words, Ryan."

"Protect me from Spencer Smith, Brendon Urie. Because I'm asking. Because you love me."

The last words sound surprisingly like a very different kind of declaration. Brendon tells him, "That was almost good."

"What did it win me?"

"What's left to give, Ryan? If you can find it, feel free to take it."

"If I find it, I'll leave it where it is, I promise." He won't, but it's sort of sweet that he thinks he will, thinks he can.

"Sleep, Ry." Whether or not he has any intention of obeying the suggestion, Ryan's eyes slip shut, and he seeks the comfort of Brendon's chest far more readily than Brendon can ever remember him doing so.

 

 

*

Brendon doesn't feel the bottle hitting him. He doesn't really even feel the aftermath, just thinks, "Blurry, odd," and then, "whoa," and does his best to keep standing. He totally fails. The last thing he hears before the suspicious silence of unconsciousness is the lingering vibration of Ryan's last chord. He thinks he should maybe worry as things cloud over completely, as the stage comes much closer than it should really be, but Ryan is there, and Spencer behind him, and Jon on his other side. He'll be fine.

When he wakes up, the first thing he hears is Spencer's insistent, but surprisingly unsnippy, "Wake up, Brendon. Wake up."

Brendon says, "Ow," because, yeah, now he feels it.

"Good boy," Spencer mutters. Brendon would frown at Spencer—he's not usually irresponsible with Brendon's emotions like that—but moving his face kind of hurts.

Zack asks, "You think you can sit up, bud?"

Brendon isn't sure that's the wisest plan just yet. "Where's Ryan?"

"Considering throwing bottles back at people," Spencer tells him.

Oh. Bottle. That makes sense. "Bad idea."

"I think you can distract him by sitting up," Zack says. Zack seems pretty intent on Brendon sitting up. Brendon closes his eyes for a couple of seconds. One of them really hurts, he thinks that's probably the point of impact. He's not blind, as far as he can tell, so somebody was looking out for him. Probably Ryan.

He takes a deep breath and grabs Zack's arm and drags himself upright. He nearly goes right back down again except that hey, it worked, and Ryan is in front of him saying, "That's right, that's fucking right."

He sounds _pissed_. Brendon's fairly certain it's not at him. Brendon says, "Ow," again, because it validly bears repeating, and also, Ryan is talking kind of loudly. Brendon's going to have to sing even more loudly. He winces at the thought. He could probably call it quits, they'd let him. But the fucktard who threw the bottle would laugh and call Panic pussies and maybe Brendon is, but Ryan and Spencer and Jon are not and no way is Brendon dragging them down with him. He asks, "Um. We were on the first song, weren't we?"

"We can abort the set," Jon says, and he sounds _really_ pissed, but Brendon _knows_ Jon's not mad at him.

"Uh uh," Brendon says. "No way."

"Brendon—" Spencer starts.

Brendon just looks at Ryan and says, "No."

Ryan looks over Brendon's head at Spencer. There's a silence between all of them amidst the chaos and then Ryan says, "Stand up," regal and cold in the command. Zack helps Brendon to his feet and when Brendon proves that he can stand on them and nothing else, Ryan grins, all fire and sound once again.

Brendon takes the microphone back.

 

 

*

"Ry," Brendon says.

"Don't call me that," Ryan says, even though it's Brendon and he really doesn't so much mind, but if he lets Brendon do it, Jon will and if he lets Jon do it Spencer will, and the next thing you know they'll be saying it in interviews and then quatrillions of teenagers who have never so much as breathed the same air as him will be calling him that.

"Sit down, okay? You're kinda making me dizzy."

"Oh." Ryan stops in his pacing, but he doesn't sit.

"Jesus," Brendon laughs a little. "Come here."

Ryan says, "Bren—"

"Come here."

So Ryan comes, even though Brendon really should be resting and coming within ten feet of Brendon is almost sure to negate that eventuality. But Brendon has asked and Ryan is good at all sorts of things, even, on occasion, saying no, but not to Brendon. Or Jon or Spencer. Fuckers. Ryan lays down beside Brendon and doesn't touch him and Brendon says, "You're going to hurt my feelings," with that pout that is such utter bullshit but Ryan says, "Jesus, you asshole, you could have had a concussion."

"Doctor cleared me, Ry."

"Don't—"

Brendon presses a finger to Ryan's lips. "Promise I won't do it in public. Or even in front of the others."

Ryan has had very, very few things that were his own in his life, and despite the fact that Brendon is the one giving him this, it still feels like something to which he can claim sole possession of, so he nods his head. Brendon says, "Sorry I scared you."

Ryan screws up his face and looks away and says, "What would happen if all I had was words inside and nobody to sing them?"

"You'd find someone—"

"Don't," Ryan all but screams, and it's only years and years and years of keeping all those words inside that lend him the control. But if Brendon isn't there to siphon it off, isn't there to let the bad blood flow free, then he knows it will snap, that everything that has held for so long will simply end, and Ryan will be able to do nothing but blow away with it. "Do. Not."

Brendon pulls him to him, arms coming around, and Ryan has never much liked being touched, not when it's always been an offensive move on someone else's part, but he doesn't push Brendon away. Doesn't even want to. Brendon repeats, "Sorry I scared you."

Ryan buries his face in Brendon's neck and breathes.

 

 

*

Brendon perches on the arm of the couch. "If I told you that Frank Iero gave me a gift would you think we were involved in sexual congress?"

Ryan looks up. "I don't like that phrase and why would I think that?"

"Sometimes you get a little wiggy."

Ryan raises his eyebrows. "Wiggy?"

"You're perfectly self-aware, Ryan Ross."

"Would you please sit down before you fall on me and I'm the one who gets broken?"

In a calculated risk, Brendon dives a little, onto Ryan, who actually catches him. Which tells Brendon that Ryan actually isn't all that concerned about him cheating with Frank. "It's kind of a sexy gift."

Brendon somersaults so that he's lying on his back, the top of his head brushing Ryan's thigh, legs draped over the arm of the couch. Ryan messes a bit with his bangs. "A sexy gift?"

"He gave us body paint."

"I thought he was giving you gifts."

"Gifts to use with you."

Ryan looks down at Brendon. "Why would he be doing that, Brendon?"

Brendon closes his eyes. "He sort of. Um. He caught us."

" _Caught_?"

"When we were— Backstage one night, we were fighting about Reading. He was coming to pick up Spence and he—"

Ryan's eyes are jagged in his face. "Why the fuck didn't he say something?"

"He thought you needed to say something. And that you wouldn't if he did."

"That fucking—"

"Please don't, Ryan. He was really— He told me, he was honest and he was concerned and friend-like, and maybe you don't need anything other than Spencer, but I sort of wouldn't mind and it's going to be hard if you hate him, so if you could just see where maybe he didn't intend to hurt either one of us, then that would be... I'd appreciate that."

Brendon can see the chords in Ryan's throat tense as he thinks about it. "Body paint."

"So you can make me yours. If you want. But you don't have to keep me. Because it washes off."

There's a long silence and then Ryan slips his hands underneath Brendon's shoulders and hefts him up so that his head is on Ryan's lap. "Then you're going to have to avoid showers for a pretty long time."

Brendon can't help himself, he knows better than to turn into Ryan or to tickle his stomach or even find his hand with his own, but he cannot stop the grin that comes over his face. "That could get kind of gross."

"Maybe we'll just get more body paint."

"Probably'll make Spencer happier."

Ryan nods. "We should be considerate."

Brendon contents himself to lie there and grin up at Ryan until he gives into temptation and leans down for a kiss.

 

 

*

There's a desk in the hotel room, a somewhat ornate-looking mahogany monstrosity. It digs into Brendon's hips when Ryan bends him over it, and he hisses a little. It's not that it's so very uncomfortable. But it will become so. Behind him, Ryan stills. "Am I hurting you?"

Brendon really, really doesn't want to end up not having sex tonight, the way he will if Ryan is given time to freak out. "Not you. Desk. And hurt's a little bit of an exaggeration."

Ryan pulls Brendon up by his shoulders, and nudges his hip until he turns around. Then he lifts him onto the desk and pushes him back until he is lying with his ass just at the edge.

"Better," Brendon says, in that tone that means, "All right, move it, cock time now."

Ryan grins and slings Brendon's legs over his shoulders, driving in hard and deep. Brendon arches into his cock, onto his cock, long and elegant and fucking perfect, just like every other part of Ryan fucking Ross.

Ryan says, "See, the other way you wouldn't have had to close your eyes."

"What?" Brendon asks, thinking maybe he's heard wrong, distracted by the frantic hum of pleasure in his mind.

"Your eyes," Ryan says. "You'll have to close them if you can't keep yourself from looking."

Brendon stares at Ryan for a moment, concerned that Ryan's issues—which he really, really thought were getting better—have progressed to the point of it being necessary for Brendon not to see him during the actual act of intercourse. Then Ryan lifts a familiar-looking jar. Oh, the body paint.

"I was going to put it on your back. Instead you have to promise not to look."

"But I want to see," Brendon whines.

"When it's done."

"But—"

Ryan twists his hips ever so slightly.

"No looking," Brendon pants. "Promise."

Ryan leans down so that his mouth is next to Brendon's ear. "You're _such_ a good boy."

That isn't fair, not at all, not when Ryan knows that Brendon won't even think to look now, think to betray that conception of him, particularly not in Ryan's eyes. He closes his own, unwilling to risk even accidentally catching the signals appearing on his flesh. Ryan's fingers are cold and smooth against his chest, the paint slippery. His cock is warm and full inside Brendon and Brendon needs him to move, needs it so very much, but if he does the paint will be messed up, and Brendon needs the paint too. As much. Maybe more.

It is an eternity of pure sensation and Brendon knows he's heaving great, sobbing breaths by the time Ryan finally pulls his finger wholly away and does not bring it back, wraps it around Brendon's cock even as he moves quick and intent and so utterly on. He says, "Hold it until I tell you otherwise."

There are possibly tears at that pronouncement. A tear, at least. Ryan wipes it away with his thumb. "You're so beautiful when you listen like this, so good. So good."

Ryan comes in him but still the order isn't given and Brendon is begging now, eyes still closed, Ryan's hand at his hip possibly the only thing keeping him from sliding in one great, boneless heap to the floor. Ryan says, "I'm going to put my mouth on you, and you're going to come."

Brendon isn't particularly impressed by Ryan's predictive abilities. He's nearly coming from the order alone. He holds out until the requisite lips have closed around the head of his cock. When he can again, when speech has returned, he asks, "Can I open my eyes?"

"Not yet." Ryan supports him by his arms, brings him off the table, leads him through the room to a point where he stops, lets go. Brendon does his best not to complain.

"All right, you can open them."

Brendon does. There's paint on his cock. On Ryan's lips. The paint on his chest says, "into the sea of waking dreams I follow without pride."

It takes Brendon a few seconds to remember how the English language works. Then he says, "McLachlan, you big girl?"

"You knew the reference," Ryan says, unbothered.

"I did. I do." Brendon pauses, then finishes the stanza. "Nothing stands between us here,  
and I won't be denied."

"I won't," Ryan says softly.

 

 

*

Frank calls Brendon and leaves a message wherein he forgets to leave his name. It sounds like this. "Hey, so, you haven't called, which might just mean you didn't ever save my number, or something, but I was thinking I should ask, maybe, if the gift worked, or not, maybe I shouldn't ask that, I don't know. I'm a good friend but that doesn't mean I can't be an idiot sometimes, still I'd like to talk to you even if it's not about that, because, hey, you seem like a good friend, too. So, now you have my number. Call me."

There's a message right after that where all he says is, "Um, that was Frank Iero."

Brendon snorts and programs Frank's number into his phone. He calls him somewhere between New Mexico and Texas, where the roads warn for dust storms but refuse to tell a person what state he's in. It seems like the best place in the world to say, "It worked. The gift."

"Hi Brendon," Frank says softly.

"Oh. Hi."

Frank laughs a little, but it isn't mean laughter. Brendon wants to explain that sometimes his brain goes too fast, that he forgets he hasn't attended to the niceties, but he thinks Frank sort of gets it. Frank lives with Gerard Way, and Brendon's seen the interviews.

"Did you tell him— I mean, you must have told him something."

"I don't lie to Ryan." Brendon doesn't even lie in the ways Ryan lies, to protect others, although Brendon maybe wishes he could.

"Is he going to kill me in my sleep?"

"He's not violent. He sometimes wishes he was. To protect himself, that sort of thing. But he isn't."

"Brendon."

"No. He— I mean, he was pretty mad. But I explained. He listens to me."

"He should."

Brendon tries not smile at the vehemence in Frank's voice. He fails. "Anyway. It worked."

"That means we can be friends, right? If I made it up to you and him? That means we can sort of start over."

"Start over?"

"Well, okay, maybe not exactly, but move on? We could move on."

"I called you," Brendon says. "Despite your kinda rambly voicemail."

"It wasn't _that_ rambly."

"Maybe not if you're dating Mikey Way."

"Step off, have you ever watched an interview of yourself?"

Brendon laughs because, actually, he has. Mikey has nothing on him and they both know it. When his laughter dies out within him he says, "You gave him a way to tell me he loves me." He knows he hasn't meant to say that, not to anyone, not to someone outside the band, not not not. But it's said and he can't take it back.

"He tells you that all the time, Brendon. You just never look up at the right moments."

"No, it's—"

"Once you know, it's impossible not to know, trust me."

Brendon says, "That's maybe a little bit dangerous."

"It's definitely a little bit worth it."

And yeah, "It really kinda is."

 

 

*

It's not that Brendon forgets, he doesn't forget, not ever, not with Ryan. It's that occasionally, he can't stop himself from doing things he knows he shouldn't. It hasn't happened for a while when they're somewhere in the midwest—Detroit, maybe? Not Chicago, Brendon can always remember Chicago—and there are girls everywhere, just like always, and one reaches out and pulls Ryan to her and kisses him.

Zack has the girl off in a second—she's a tiny thing and okay, Ryan's tiny too, but Brendon has to marvel for a second at how much she must have wanted that, craved it, been willing to do anything for it. Brendon tamps down on the urge to rip her face straight from her skull. Bad publicity, that. Spencer's at his back, herding him forward and Brendon snaps, "I'm going."

Spencer doesn't move. Spencer's sturdy like that. Brendon could fucking scream.

They make it backstage and Brendon can't help himself, he can't, he has his hands on Ryan's shirt, twisted in it, his lips to Ryan's and he's saying, "Mine, _mine_ ," until Ryan pushes him off, really pushes him and then he stays where he lands, crumpled on the floor. Ryan says, "Jesus, Brendon, it was just a fucking fan."

Spencer says, "You've made your point, Ryan."

Brendon slumps all the way to the floor and thinks, _he always does_. He can hear Ryan stomp off. Spencer starts to follow but Brendon says, "Don't. He'll, you know. He'll get over it. I'll say I'm sorry. It'll be fine."

Brendon feels himself being hauled up and lets Jon have his way. Spencer looks like he just drank milk gone bad. He says, "Maybe you shouldn't apologize."

Brendon shakes his head. "He was already fucked up from her touching him. It was, like, the worst possible moment for me to go He-Man."

"Let’s pretend like I know the Ryan Ross of whom we speak here for a moment," Spencer says. "He's gotta stop pretending like you're some random person on the street at some point, Brendon."

"Is that the same thing as he's got to decide that I don't have to respect his boundaries at some point?" Brendon asks, his head cocked curiously.

"You respect his boundaries," Spencer says.

"I knew," is all Brendon has to say to that. "I knew."

"He shouldn't have pushed you." Jon is still holding Brendon on his feet. Brendon could probably stand on his own, but he doesn't really feel like mentioning that.

"Two wrongs don't make a right," Brendon agrees. Spencer sighs. Jon's hands tighten in their grip.

"Just give him a little while, and I'll go talk to him." First a nap, though, Brendon thinks. Nap, then show, then talk. Brendon loves monosyllabic words. Spencer does not look as though he has been convinced.

"Really," Brendon tries, which is weak, but he's kind of tired, and his hip hurts from where he hit the floor. He thinks he might have skinned his palms.

"Can I go now? I'm sort of hoping for a nap."

Spencer looks over Brendon's shoulder and Brendon knows he's gonna have a nap buddy. He wishes it were Ryan standing behind him. Wishes are stupid little fuckers.

 

 

*

Brendon has just gotten settled with Jon behind him, warm and soft and still, the hip that hurts facing up, when Jon moves. Jon presses his hand to Brendon's shoulder and just leaves. Brendon bites his lip and keeps his eyes closed and doesn't say a damn thing. Jon probably thinks he's asleep. There's another hand on him then, a hand that he knows all too well. It flutters over his hip. Brendon asks, "Can we please do this later? I really... I'm tired, Ryan."

Ryan rolls Brendon's shirt up a bit, pulls the hem of his jeans down so that he can kiss the spot where there are bruises forming. "He always said sorry. After."

Later clearly isn't going to happen, so Brendon drags his eyes open. "Stop, Ryan." He doesn't dare shorten Ryan's name, not now.

"You were just kissing me," Ryan says. "It wasn't you I wanted to— I should have been able to get her off me."

"She came at you pretty fast." Brendon knows. He was watching.

"You were just kissing me."

Brendon sighs. "I get it, Ryan, okay? I get that I should have let you have your space, and that you're sorry you reacted the way you did. It's fine. Can I take a nap now?"

Ryan hesitates. Finally he asks, "Can I stay with you? Like Jon? I can be— Well, I'm not as soft. But I can hold you."

Brendon thinks maybe he should say no, that this is Ryan's way of apologizing, even if the actions sound different. He thinks he should say no and mean no and not do this anymore, not be this person who's never quite enough or too much at all the wrong times.

Ryan is offering to hold him. He rolls himself just far enough that Ryan can fit behind him on the couch, in the space where Jon previously was. Ryan whispers, "You can kiss me whenever you want. You can. You're Brendon. You're my boyfriend."

Brendon knows all about mantras, about how they're supposed to become true. He's never had it happen for him, but maybe Ryan is different. Ryan's pretty fucking incredible in the way he wants things, the way he pursues them. Ryan says, "I _am_ yours."

Brendon would laugh, truly he would, but it's work just to close his eyes.

 

 

*

When Brendon was five, he broke a lamp in his house. It was an ugly lamp, Brendon remembers. His dad called him stupid. Brendon remembers that, too. He had to clean it up and one of the shards got caught in his hand. His mom pulled it out for him, liberal in her dosing of the peroxide and gentle in applying the bandage, but she told him, "This is what happens to little boys who aren't paying attention, and break things."

Since then, Brendon has actually been far more aware of his surroundings than he generally lets on.

When he was seventeen, Brendon accidentally broke a glass at the Spencer residence. It was one of the times he actually gave into the temptation to come over while he was living on his own. He was trying to help set the table but he was shaky from hunger and exhaustion and the glass slipped from his fingers. Spencer's mom called, "Sweetie, you okay in there?"

"Stupid," he said, under his breath. "Fine," he called, and went to find her broom.

She found him sweeping up the shards. "Oh, no, hey. That's what we have a vacuum for."

"I'm really sorry." Really sorry. I don't go around breaking things.

She shook her head and smiled, "It's just a glass. We have a million of them." That sounded so reasonable to Brendon, but it wasn't the point.

At nineteen, Brendon is moving around the dressing room, trying to get himself all fitted out and prepped for the show when his hip brushes Ryan's iPod and knocks it from the dresser. Ryan doesn't keep his iPod in a case, hates the way it inhibits his ability to play with the dial. Brendon goes to catch it, but it falls anyway and there's a cracking sound as it hits the ground. Ryan looks over and yells, "Fucking hell, Brendon, what the fuck?"

Brendon thinks, " _stupid, stupid_." He opens his mouth to say, "Sorry," to say, "I'll get you a new one and load all your songs just the way you like them and you can borrow mine until then," but something in his posture must catch Ryan's attention because Ryan backs up a step.

Brendon says, "I wasn't— I didn't mean to. I'll get you a new one. You sorta wanted to upgrade anyway, so I can just—“

"I shouldn't have left it there," Ryan interrupts. He looks pretty ashamed of himself. Brendon doesn't think it's for leaving his iPod in a bad location.

"I should have been paying attention." _Stupid._

"Hey," Ryan calls him back. Brendon wonders how Ryan knew he had gone. "You were just getting ready for the show."

Brendon nods. He was, he really was. "I will get you a new one."

Ryan shakes his head. "You're right. I was getting ready to upgrade. This just forces the issue, that's all."

"I'm sorry," Brendon says. He's so, so sorry.

Ryan reaches a hand out, touches it lightly to Brendon's shoulder. "It's just a thing, Brendon."

"It was your thing. And I broke it. And it was...it has all your music."

"My music is in other places. It was just a thing."

Brendon says, "I should pay more attention."

Ryan's lips part and for a second Brendon thinks he's going to say something else. He kisses Brendon instead, lightly. "You pay enough attention. You do."

 

 

*

Ryan and Spencer both like being out on the road in ways that Brent never did, like the newness of everything, the constant motion. Spencer, Brendon knows, likes the sense of going toward something. Ryan likes the sense of going away from something. Brendon just likes the ease of being away.

When he goes back there's the expectation that he'll stay at home for a bit, since he's never rented an apartment—he's not around enough to want to spend the money. He can slip off to Ryan's after a few days, but those first three or four are a required courtesy call in a place where he can never really belong again. His mom will kiss him and muss his hair and say, "It's so good to have you back," and Brendon will have to fight the urge to ask, "Is it?" or "Back home or back to being the son you wanted?"

His dad will smile at him and say, "Doing well?" and he'll have to bite his tongue until he says, "Yes, sir," rather than, "My boyfriend takes good care of me."

His brothers and sisters will come over and that will help a little, since Caddie never stopped speaking to him and she'll sit by his side for the rest of the evening, silent and stolid and faithful. But Ashley will try a little too hard and Serah will act as if nothing ever happened and it will be awkward in the worst way, the way that nobody will acknowledge. Then they will leave and there will be more silence that Brendon has no way of filling, more things that he can't say because as much as he wants to be angry, he still wants their forgiveness more.

He still wants to go back and be another college-attending child. He still wants for them to have seen what he was and to have accepted that before it meant respectability. He still wants for somebody to love him without question.

He helps his mom around the house for a couple of days because it earns him unmitigated affection, but when Drew brings over his kids and Brendon's parents both throw looks in his direction—expectant looks—Brendon packs up the next morning and says, "Sorry, we have to write a little. I know, I know, breaks just aren't as break-like as we'd like them to be."

He takes a cab to Ryan's place and rings the buzzer and hopes he's there. He's not, so Brendon calls him and says, "Um, were you gonna come home any time soon?"

"Jesus, kid," Ryan says, but he sounds like he gets it, and shows up no more than half an hour later.

Brendon places his bag neatly by the door and goes to curl up on the sofa. "Were you with Spence?"

Ryan nods.

"Sorry."

Ryan shakes his head. "He'll let me back in."

Brendon hides his face at that. Ryan sighs and walks over to his couch. "Over."

Brendon moves enough for Ryan to sit at his side. Ryan says, "I was gonna go back for dinner tonight. You wanna come?"

Brendon nods into his knees. Ryan kisses the back of his neck. Brendon brings his head up to rest his chin on his knees. "If I told you that I was quitting the band, that I thought it was better for me to just—"

"I'm not fucking you because you're talented," Ryan tells him, low and urgent and maybe a little bit pissed, but at whom, Brendon is unsure.

"But that would sort of be a betrayal, I mean—"

"Would you do it?"

Brendon thinks about the yearning in his parents’ eyes, about the pride that's never for him, not even at his best moments. About how nice that would be, to see that, just once. Ryan is pressed lightly to him, all effort and patience. "No."

"That's sort of the part that counts, Brendon."

He tries not to ask, he tries so hard, but, "Could you just, stay, for a bit?"

Ryan drapes his arm around Brendon. "If you did, I'd forgive you."

Brendon closes his eyes against the vastness of Ryan's forgiveness, of Ryan's love. For all that it is a sharp, dangerous thing, it is not a rotten one, and though Ryan does not always see the difference, the lines are clear behind Brendon's eyes. He says, "I wouldn't, not ever."

Ryan says, "You like to make things easy on me."

 

 

*

Brendon watches the way Ryan allows Spencer's mom to hug him, say, "You never come around anymore. Where's the love?"

He watches the way Ryan doesn't shy away when Spencer's dad claps a hand carefully to his shoulder, asks, "Have you grown?"

Ryan says, "I think that ship's probably sailed."

Mr. Smith shakes his head. "You never know."

Mrs. Smith hugs Brendon too, and he does his best not to cling because she hugs like Spencer—without reserve or the expectation of recompense. He whispers, "Thanks for having me for dinner."

She pushes him back just a little and says, "Does my son not make sure you eat out there?"

"He does everything else. He should get a break once in a while, don't you think?"

"Love doesn't work like that, Brendon Urie," she says, her tone firm, authoritative, like she knows. He believes her, kind of. He knows how things are between him and Ryan.

Mr. Smith's arm around his shoulder isn't so careful as the one he extended Ryan. Brendon would feel proud, strong, except he knows that the only difference in how the two of them break is one of direction. And he knows that, in some ways, Ryan will always hold out longer than Brendon will. Mr. Smith asks, "How's it going?"

Brendon says, "The girls seem to like us." Mr. Smith laughs and looks over at Spencer with a clean, hard pride. Brendon presses himself up into the arm, like maybe some of that will transfer by touch, if not by proximity.

Dinner is tamales, which he knows are one of Ryan's favorite things ever, ever. Ryan grew up on TV dinners, so it isn't hard to impress him with food, but he loves the heavy spice, the full texture of the corn and pork filling. Ryan pretty much doesn't stop until they're all gone and then he looks up at Mrs. Smith with apologetic eyes, but she just says, "Good boy."

Brendon helps clean up—he's good at that, always uncannily aware of where the tupperware will be, how people like their dishwashers loaded. The Smiths try and swat him away, but Brendon's a good boy too, even if he can't clear an entire tray of tamales. Mrs. Smith reaches into the refrigerator and says, "Spencer didn't tell me you were coming until this afternoon, so it's mostly store bought and assembled, but I thought I remembered you liking this."

She pulls out a strawberry shortcake, which is Brendon's favoritest dessert in the history of dessert foods. He used to ask for one every birthday, but his parents were always concerned that the guests would want chocolate, so it was rare that he ever got one. Neither Ryan nor Spencer are big on strawberries, so he feels sort of guilty, but Mrs. Smith says, "There's hot fudge in the fridge, Ryan and Spencer can smother the pound cake, they'll be happy as clams."

Brendon has always wondered if clams are as happy as everybody seems to think. She says, "I did have time to make the whipped cream, so that's real."

Brendon manages to stay rooted where he is for all of ten seconds before finding himself wrapped around her, saying, "Thank you, thank you," perhaps convulsively.

She says, "Sure thing, babycakes," and pets his hair and doesn't act like he's supposed to be nearly twenty years old, rather than five.

 

 

*

Brendon ends up staying at Spencer's, he and Ryan both borrowing boxers and t-shirts. Mrs. Smith makes them hot chocolate and popcorn. Spencer has a collection of board games that probably rivals the CEO of Mattel, and they settle on Clue, because they are clearly all in the mood for classics. At around ten they call Jon and make him stay on and play the game with them. He doesn't even complain, just keeps guessing random shit until proven conclusively wrong.

When they hang up, Spencer says, "The two of you are so lucky sometimes it's almost like the universe is hitting you back, because I swear, if the Jon thing had broken up the band, I probably wouldn't have spoken to you for at least a year."

Brendon freezes in mid-action while setting up the board for another round. Ryan says, "It was my idea, you'd have to stop speaking to me."  
  
That Ryan thinks Spencer would really stop talking to him, that Ryan would give up Spencer if it meant Brendon wouldn't have to; "I agreed, Ryan."

"You're both such fucking assholes."

Brendon doesn't necessarily disagree. He wishes Spencer sounded a little bit more pissed off, rather than just annoyed. "I didn't think you—"

"Knew?" Spencer looks at him with sharp disbelief.

Next to him, Ryan shrugs, but not out of carelessness. "You didn't say. Anything."

"Miraculously, the two of you managed to not completely fuck things up. Either that, or Jon is a better actor than I give him credit for."

Ryan folds his legs into a pretzel formation. "He fixed...things."

 _Things_ , Brendon knows, is not the same as, _us_.

"Okay, you get the part where you didn't really have the right to ask, don’t you?" Spencer asks.

Brendon nods, duly chastised. Ryan asks, "How is that any different than anything I've ever done to either of you?"

Brendon says, "Fuck you, Ryan Ross," and sort of means it in the non-sexual way. Spencer makes a sign with his hand that maybe means "ditto".

Ryan frowns. "No, Brendon, no. There has been shit, and you know there has been and maybe I don't talk about it because there's only so much not being proud of himself a guy can take, but there has been, even if you do it because I got lucky, all right, really lucky, but that doesn't mean I have the right, just because you end up granting it, it doesn't make it, I don't know, _inimical_." Ryan maybe has a point, which doesn't mean Brendon really feels like granting him it.

"Jon's not your boyfriend," Spencer says and for a second, it sort of pisses Brendon off that Spencer always gets to make sense. Then he remembers that's it's generally kind of useful, too.

"He's part of the band," Ryan says, and that shouldn't sound as reasonable as it does.

Spencer buries his face in his hands. "Ry."

"Ryan."

"RyRyRyRyRy."

Ryan sighs. It occurs to Brendon that somewhere in Ryan's head, asking Jon wasn't just a move to see how far he could go, but an actual vote of confidence, of inclusion. Brendon says, "Sorry," for both of them because, of the two, he's the one who probably understands the most why what they did was wrong, and it seems like this is one apology that should be sincere.

Spencer looks at Brendon. "It didn't screw anything up."

Brendon says, "Yeah," and knows that really, he doesn't deserve Spencer's reassurance.

Spencer stands, "You want some more hot chocolate?"

"Please." Brendon hands him his cup. Spencer squeezes his fingers before taking it and heading to the kitchen.

 

 

*

Jon says, "You think maybe we should get a bus dog?"

Ryan says, "As the only other person on this bus who likes Pete Wentz, I have to tell you, you probably shouldn't listen to him regarding lifestyle choices."

Spencer says, "I don't dislike Pete, exactly."

Brendon stays silent. He knows Jon's interested in Pete, maybe more than interested, but Brendon will get to giving up his grudge when Pete's curled contentedly at Jon's feet and not a moment before. Jon looks over at him. Brendon looks away. "Still," Jon says after a moment. "I think it would boost morale."

"We got you to boost morale," Spencer says. Brendon smirks.

"Then by definition, it's my job to come up with continuous ways in which said morale can be boosted. Right?"

Spencer asks, "Do you actually want a bus dog? I mean, is that what the issue is here?"

Jon shrugs. "I was thinking a bus cat might not hurt."

Brendon says, "Ryan likes kittens. They bite." He leans over and nips at Ryan's lower lip in order to prove his point.

Ryan says, "You are such a complete genetic mutant."

"You're the one dating me," Brendon tells him, since Ryan didn't pull back from the bite, not at all, and Brendon's thinking he's got a little bit of leeway.

Ryan isn't buying the argument. "Jon's trying to date Pete, which should mean a lot things, but doesn't."

Brendon isn't so sure it doesn't mean a lot of things—Jon came along for the fixing-them ride with a lot less persuasion than Brendon thinks it would have taken with most people. "Jon's special."

"A kitten, huh?" Spencer says, because it is Spencer's job to keep the conversation on track.

Jon looks cautiously optimistic. "We could call her Killer Queen."

"We know it's a she?" Ryan asks.

"This bus needs a feminine touch," Jon asserts.

Brendon blinks at that. Spencer snorts. Ryan shakes his head in amusement. "That's a good name for a cat," Brendon decides.

"It really is," Ryan backs him up.

"And once you have a good name..." Spencer says.

Jon grins. "Victory?"

Brendon nods alongside his partners in decision-making crime.

 

 

*

Spencer does online research and decides that Panic is adopting a kitten, not buying one. This makes things a little bit more complicated, because getting to a shelter involves more time maneuvering than getting to a store, but Spencer just looks at them all with his big brother eyes and says, "Would I just leave _you_ at a shelter? Huh?"

That's a hard argument to undermine. Ryan tries with something about how the kitten isn't technically part of Panic just yet, but he seems like he knows it's a lost cause before he even starts. Brendon and Jon certainly do. Brendon catches Jon's expression at least three times during the exchange and it matches his for mild enjoyment of spectatorship.

They have an overnight in Buffalo, which is pretty much the armpit of the continental United States, but has a shelter that's open six days a week to possible pet adopters. They make it in at four on a Friday, and Brendon hopes that Spencer remembers to look apologetically at the employees, since he knows that the moment the rest of them see the kittens and puppies, they'll all be too busy making stupid noises to pay any attention to the humans.

Despite the cat being Jon's idea, it's Ryan who finds the New Bus Overlord, as Brendon will come to think of—and even refer to—Killer Queen. She's being beat up. Brendon's pretty sure she was never in serious danger; the staff at the shelter seem pretty invested in keeping all the animals safe. But there are four to five kittens in a room, and Killer, who is just an unnamed ball of white and black and gold at that time, is the smallest. Evidently, cats are as mean as humans.

Ryan reaches in and scoops her out and holds her cautiously to his chest. He puts his mouth to her ear and at first Brendon's sure he's just saying reassuring things, but as he gets closer, he can hear Ryan singing. Whistle a Happy Tune. Brendon's boyfriend is the coolest uncool person in the entire universe.

Spencer approaches first, since Ryan looks like he might not necessarily welcome company, which isn't surprising, all things being what they are. Spencer reaches a hand out and runs a finger over the top of Killer's head. She looks up, shocked, but apparently not wholly unreceptive. She purrs when Jon joins in. Of course. Ryan says, "Gonna join, kid?"

Now that he's been invited, Brendon's quite sure he will. Brendon puts a hand out to pet her and finds himself with a handful of kitten, transferred carefully from Ryan to him. Brendon settles Killer before looking up at Ryan. Ryan smiles off to the side. Spencer tells the shelter worker, "I think we've found the one."

The shelter worker snorts. "You think?"

Brendon puts his nose to Killer's and says, "I know, it seems like a bad deal, us, but we're gonna keep you safe."

She licks his nose, her tongue like day-old grits over his skin. He laughs. She'll fit right in.

 

 

*

Tormenting Killer with the toy Pete brought them becomes Brendon's favorite thing ever—right up to, but not quite surpassing, Ryan. Ryan seems aware that it is a close thing. Jon hides the toy one day because Brendon—much like Killer—will never give up until the hunt is complete, and Jon needs to talk to him.

Which is how he finds Brendon sitting pretzel style in his bunk, looking quizzically at the toy. He looks over when Jon sits next to him and says, "Is there something you need to tell us about you and Killer?"

"You're not ready for the truth in that regard," Jon tells him.

Brendon snorts, then asks, "Why'd you hide it?"

"I wanted you to come to me."

Brendon asks, "Why didn't you just ask?" and Jon doesn't smile because he knows it will give too much away, that his eyes won't match, that Brendon, who knows quite enough already, will _know_.

Instead he shrugs. "This was easier."

Brendon makes a face at that and unfolds, stretches out, drapes himself over Jon. Jon responds the way he's meant to, he pets Brendon, because Brendon can't ask Ryan, not really, not most of the time, and it is beyond Jon, utterly beyond him, to refuse something so obviously needed. After a bit Brendon says, "I was nice to Pete. Sort of. I tried."

"You did a good job," Jon tells him.

"Ryan asked," Brendon admits.

Jon takes a breath, mostly to remind himself that he can. "Whatever gets the job done."

Brendon scrambles up as much as he can in the space. He looks at Jon, just looks at him for a long time. "I take you for granted, huh?"

Jon starts to shake his head, but Brendon says, "No, somewhere— That's odd."

"Bren—"

"Ryan's always scared that you'll leave, I mean, Ryan's always scared that everyone'll leave, so I wouldn't take it personally, it's mostly just because you weren't permanent at first and all, but I never worry about that. Even when we ask for things we shouldn't ask for and I treat your not-boyfriend mean, even then I don't worry." Brendon frowns. "It's possible that I'm kind of a dick to you."

Jon sort of believes Brendon should be allowed that with somebody. "I don't want you thinking I would leave, Brendon."

"But I could have tried for you. I should have."

"Hey." Jon nudges Brendon into curling up onto him. "So long as you're trying."

"Can I ask something?"

"Asking's pretty open territory."

"Why him?"

Jon considers all the possible answers, all the things he's willing to say aloud. Finally he settles on, "I like being needed. He's good for that."

"We need you," Brendon says. "Maybe we're shit at acting like it, but we do."

"I know. If I thought otherwise, I _wouldn't_ stay."

Brendon shudders in his arms, which is gratifying. Jon clamps down on an intense—and inappropriate—wave of longing.

"Is that it? He needs you? Because, I mean, I like that Ryan needs me, but that's just the beginning of things. Maybe not even."

"He loves hard, all you have to do is look at Hemmy to know that. He tries to be the person he wants to be no matter how many times he fails. He plays the bass like it came attached along with hair and all ten fingers and toes. His laughter, when it's real, is the cleanest thing I've ever heard."

"He gives good gifts," Brendon adds helpfully.

"He tries to make up for his mistakes," Jon says, ruffling his fingers through Brendon's hair.

"That wasn't just him," Brendon says softly, the words catching on at least three different spots in his throat.

"It never is with the two of you." Jon laughs a little.

Brendon says, "If you left, I'd hunt you down. Me and Killer."

"I won't leave."

"But if you did."

"Okay."

Brendon recaptures the toy and asks, "Wanna come drive Killer crazy with me?"

Brendon really does a more than adequate job on his own, but that's not going to keep Jon from saying, "You bet."

 

 

*

Pete's playing with Killer and she's clearly loving it and it's really enough that Pete has to be on their bus, taking their Jon and getting his Ryan to smile like some giddy young thing, but co-opting Killer for his own purposes is just too much. Brendon scoops her up and holds her above his head. "Good morning, gorrrrgeous. Good morning."

From down on the ground, Pete says, "Because it's not enough that everyone from Jon to the fucking cat is always in love with you, you feel the need to rub it in?"

Brendon's about to say, "Don't swear about my cat," when the first part of the statement catches up to him. He holds Killer to his chest and she curls there sedately, which isn't her normal state. She's a really smart cat. Pete says, "Oh shit."

Brendon says, "Wanting someone is not the same as loving them, Wentz."

"And vice versa," Pete says softly.

"He doesn't—"

"He does. I shouldn't have said it and all it would take would be for you to tell him, for him to— I couldn't have taken Ryan from you, Brendon. Ryan was always yours, even when he thought maybe he wasn't, or maybe he didn't want to be, he always was. And I can't take Jon from you. I can be a distraction and I will be, because when he's looking at me it doesn't feel like that, it feels like fucking forever, it feels like all that shit I know doesn't exist and so I'll take it because it's no fucking stupider than all the other shit I take, all the other moments I steal, but in the end that's all it is because he's always coming back to you, and you don't even _need_ him. So if you've got those two all wrapped up, I don't think your cat's a big flight risk."

"We need him, Pete."

"Not like—"

"No, but we need him. More than you can possibly imagine."

Pete's silent for a long time. "You didn't know? You honestly didn't?"

"Ryan skews my perceptions."

Pete laughs at that, a laugh so bitter it makes Brendon taste baking chocolate in his mouth. "Ryan? Skew someone's perceptions? No."

Brendon's smile is more a grimace, but he gets the humor, however dark. "You say it, that you couldn't have taken him, you say that like it was always a foregone conclusion. But I waited for him to come back. What if he hadn't, Pete? What if you had been his real thing, and not me, and he was my real thing, is my real thing, is fucking everything and I wasn't that for him? What then?"

"Then why did you—"

"Because he would have always wondered. And you wouldn't have let him stop wondering. Ever. And sooner or later it wouldn't have even mattered if I was his real thing or not, because this unreal thing, this supposition, would be the only thing left."

Pete's still thinking about that when Brendon says, "And because he asked."

"What?" Pete asks.

"Ryan, he asked. I'm— I give him the things he asks for, when I can. When it won't hurt him more."

"Because you love him."

Brendon nods, and thinks Pete may be on to something, that maybe he should have paid attention to the way Jon gives him the things he asks for, too. All of them. Pete is still crumpled on the floor though, alone and at Brendon's mercy and Brendon is not a fixer, not like Jon, but he doesn't break things either, he doesn't. Brendon slips down onto his knees and carefully transfers Killer into Pete's arms. He says, "You're not just a distraction. If you were just a distraction, I wouldn't have to be so fucking scared of you."

"Maybe you're just a wimp."

Brendon shakes his head. "I'm not. I have a good sense of what is dangerous."

"I don't mean to be dangerous," Pete says, his voice a little shaky.

"I—" Brendon closes his eyes, takes a breath. He opens them. "I know."

"Please don't tell him I said anything. I fuck up enough with him."

"It wasn't such a big fuck up. But I won't."

"It was his secret."

"But I won't use it to hurt him. If anything, I can stop doing stupid things that probably inadvertently hurt him. And he'll move on. Because he brought you to us and he asked us to be good about you. He asked me, too, and okay, I kinda fucked that up, but the point is that he asked, and you don't do that for a distraction, Pete, you just don't. You have to know that."

Pete curls himself around Killer. "I don't know what I know with him."

Brendon doesn't want to tell Pete this, but that's sometimes what love is like. In the absence of having any further wisdom, Brendon leaves Pete with Killer and goes to get himself some breakfast.

 

 

*

Spencer gets the "I'm good" button for Ryan. He takes Ryan's hand one day, the way only he's allowed to do, takes it and opens it up and places the button in his palm. Ryan reads the button and says, "Maybe you should have given this to Brendon," and then feels bad, because it's not like Spencer doesn't know about Brendon's head stuff, but Ryan tries not to talk about it with people who aren't Brendon.

"You can share," Spencer tells him before taking the pin and pinning it on Ryan's shirt. "You need to hear it more than you think."

When Brendon sees the pin he laughs, and says, "Mm, _yeah_ you are," which in turn makes Ryan laugh, because he's pretty sure that when Spencer said he needed to hear that he's good more often, Spencer didn't mean "in bed."

For all his entendre, Brendon stays a respectful distance. Ryan takes the pin off his chest and pulls Brendon to him by the collar of his shirt. Brendon comes easily. Brendon always comes easily. Ryan pins the pin to Brendon's shirt and gives it a little tap. Brendon looks at it for a long moment. A shudder so violent Ryan would see it even if he weren't standing right in front of Brendon runs right through him. Ryan says, "Hey."

Brendon balls his fists at his side, and for no reason whatsoever, Ryan thinks of the headaches Brendon used to give him, the way he was so close to something and yet nowhere near it. Ryan takes a breath and takes Brendon's hands in his, unfurls them, threads Brendon's hands in his. Brendon calms, stills.

"Good, huh?" Brendon asks, looking sideways at Ryan. There's a glint in his eye that Ryan likes, but his tone is just a little off.

"Good," Ryan says forcefully. " _Good_."

Brendon shakes under Ryan's hands and Ryan asks, "What?"

Brendon shakes his head. "Thanks for the pin."

Ryan leans forward a little, touches his lips to Brendon's, waits to see what Brendon will do. Brendon responds slowly, at first just with his lips, then, when Ryan seems receptive to that, his tongue. Ryan says, "You can," into Brendon's mouth, but he doesn't know if Brendon hears him. Brendon just kisses him until they are both trembling with want.

Brendon says, "Tell me how to be good."

"You are," Ryan says, "just are."

Brendon says, "But, tell me."

Ryan says, "Let me, let me show you I'm good, too."

"I know, Ryan, I _know._ "

"Let me."

"Yours," Brendon says, squeezing his hands slightly.

Ryan turns Brendon without letting go of his hands, a ballroom dance move that he hasn't thought about in years, since he took it in gym his freshman year. Catholic school was an odd place. Ryan lets go of one hand long enough to get Brendon's pants down--Brendon helps--and then reclaims the hand, sinks to his knees, uses his tongue, works it inside Brendon, _shows_ Brendon, shows him Ryan can be good, he can, he just has to try, to remember what he needs to do. Brendon makes sweet, needy noises that only drive Ryan further in, make him press deeper. He pulls out to ask, "Can you-- Just from this? Can you?"

"Yes," Brendon promises and Ryan works him until he makes good on his word.

 

 

*

The writer's block, when it hits, feels like a brick that's been tossed at Ryan's chest, and just landed there, knocking him to his back, keeping him down. Ryan tries everything he can think of to get rid of it. He goes for nighttime and early morning walks, when the desert is cold and yet still welcoming. He watches all of his favorite movies and eats a veritable squadron's rations of his comfort foods and has Brendon blow him. He takes Brendon in nearly every room in the damn cabin, until Spencer says, "Seriously, I didn't even know this was possible, but you're wearing him out. Let him sleep, okay?"

Ryan does, watching over Brendon, and it should give him inspiration, the way Brendon curls up in his sleep, the way he sometimes _sings_ in it, but nothing will shake loose. Ryan is a completely blank slate. Brendon wakes up and stretches, all legs and arms and returned energy. "I have an idea," he says. With Brendon an idea can be a thing of wild, natural terror. At this point, Ryan really doesn't give a shit. He wants his voice back.

Brendon tells Spencer where they're going, but not Ryan. Ryan thinks maybe the surprise is half the impact. He doesn't know. It doesn't matter. What matters is whether Brendon gets him where he needs to go. Metaphorically. Brendon drives the two hours to get into Vegas and parks at Circus Circus. He leads Ryan in and pays for entrance to the theme park. "What first?"

Ryan says, "Roller coaster."

The roller coaster ends up being first, second and third, because Ryan loves that feeling of being in control of the danger in which he places himself. It's a false belief, he knows, but it's only the perception that matters, not the reality. Ryan’s stomach jolts and his breath jams and inside him, he starts to feel something loosen.

They move onto the water ride, and in the cold shock of the water hitting him, coming over him, surrounding him, Ryan can feel his words again, even if he can't reach them, not quite yet. They ride all the rides, even the kiddie ones, because Brendon knows Ryan's mom couldn't afford to take him to amusement parks when he was a kid and Brendon likes to make up for lost time so he insists on these sorts of things and Ryan lets him have his way. Ryan likes Brendon's insistence, the fact that he gives a crap that there was time lost.

Brendon saves the ferris wheel for last, which Ryan thinks is an odd choice until they're seated safely inside and Brendon's hand drops down to where people can't see to hook under Ryan's thigh, against the underside of his knee. Brendon caresses a bit, looking at Ryan, who smiles at him. Yes, _yes, you can do this, please do this_. They're up at the top for a while, just the two of them, just Brendon's hand and Ryan's leg and a sea of color and excess below them. Ryan asks, "Why this? Because it was fun?"

"Because you dreamed a circus into existence and you never once gave it a reality outside of our heads, our shows. You needed closure."

"We. We dreamed that circus."

"You saw it before Spencer or I did."

"But it was all of ours."

Brendon squeezes his hand. "We're always there with you, in any case."

By the time they reach the ground, Ryan can hear the first line of his newest song.

 

 

*

Brendon lets Ryan drive back, because Ryan asks. They're back late and if Spencer and Jon aren't asleep then they are holed up in their rooms, having some alone time. Ryan takes Brendon's hand and leads him back to Ryan's room. Brendon grins, asks in an overly wispy voice, "How would you like me?" batting his eyelashes.

Ryan rolls his eyes, grabs Brendon's chin and pulls him into a kiss. In between the not-entirely-delicate plunder of Brendon's mouth he says, "Would like you inside me."

Brendon jerks against him, and Ryan can feel him hardening at the thought alone. Brendon is easy when it comes to Ryan's permissiveness. But then, Ryan isn't easy with his permissions, so that only makes sense. "Yes," Ryan says, palming Brendon through his jeans. "Yes."

Brendon's hands are at the hem of his shirt, clearly scrabbling to get as much of his clothing off as quickly as possible. Ryan joins him in the attempt and then races him the two feet to the bed. Brendon wins. Ryan reaches over to the nightstand and grabs the lube. He hands it to Brendon, who won't take it. "Get yourself ready," he says, the idea causing his voice to lower with excitement. Ryan kneels up on the bed and pours some of the lube onto his fingers. He slips one, two into himself with a soft sigh of pleasure. Brendon says, "You're so fucking unreal sometimes. Beyond. Beyond real."

What Ryan feels under Brendon's gaze—his slightly lowered eyes, just-open lips—is beautiful, worshipped, fucking _treasured_. He slips a third finger in and twists until stars appear in a rush of self-induced pleasure. "That's enough," Brendon rasps. "Come here. Come to me."

Ryan flows to him, straight into his hands, which Brendon has out to catch Ryan by his biceps, lower him to the bed. He rolls Ryan onto his back and says, "I want to see you this time."

He drapes Ryan's legs over his shoulders, running his hands from thigh to ankle. Ryan shivers at the stimulus, the way Brendon takes his time with him when Brendon can't generally be bothered to take his time for anything. He pushes in, bending Ryan in on himself so that Brendon can touch his lips to Ryan's, press his hands to Ryan's chest. "Good?" he croons.

"More," Ryan tells him, even though he thinks that's the last thing he should ask of Brendon. "More."

Brendon pushes further in. There is no more, but he manages to find some between the two of them. He pulls out, a slow drag and his next thrust in is intense, hard, not exactly rough, but not anything else, either. Brendon knows all the ways Ryan can break, knows all the ways he can keep from hurting Ryan while not packaging him up, putting him on a shelf where nobody can reach. Ryan says, "Fuck, yes," and bucks as much as he can into Brendon.

Brendon says, "Hang on, Ry," and Ryan grips at his biceps, digging fingers too far into skin. Brendon has taught Ryan that pain is not always the same thing as hurt, that it does not always come from a place of meaning harm. Brendon's gaze never leaves Ryan's face even as his rhythm becomes frantic, as he declares himself, "Yours," to Ryan and Ryan says, "Yours," right back.

The admission brings him forward onto Ryan, into Ryan, and no sooner has Brendon collapsed, crushing Ryan's cock between them than Ryan comes, the sensation as natural as breathing out, as the feel of Brendon against him. He extricates his arms, brings them over, behind Brendon's shoulders while slipping his legs from those shoulders to around his hips. Brendon says, "You wouldn't believe how fucking confident my voice would sound if you wrote about this."

Ryan isn't sure he wouldn't disgrace himself on stage. Every time.

 

 

*

Ryan goes to get himself some more Root Beer after a somewhat intense game of Apples to Apples. He asks, "Anybody want anything?"

Brendon looks up at him hopefully, "M&M's?"

It's Brendon's birthday, so Ryan's willing to spoil him probably more than he should. Also, risk the sugar high. "I'll see what I can do."

As he's heading kitchenward, Mikey says, "I'll join you."

"I could—" Ryan starts, but Mikey's already at his side. Ryan presses the kitchen door open with his shoulder, Mikey lets it swing shut behind him and then it's just the two of them, the others dispersed around the house, cleaning.

"—get you something," he finishes, aware of the pointlessness of the offer.

Mikey says, "I wanted you, thanks."

Ryan blinks.

"To talk to."

"If this is about Brendon and Frank, you're gonna have to talk to Frank—"

"I do talk to Frank. This is about Frank's birthday gift. To Brendon. Because you seemed pretty okay, I mean, you smiled, but you're sort of hard to read."

"Is this some sort of bizarre My Chem tag-team effort?" Ryan stands ram-rod straight. It's hard being around these people who were sort of like fairy-book heroes for so long. It's not even that it's tough seeing their human side so much as that it's almost impossible to understand why they're trying to be his friends. At least, that's what Ryan thinks this is.

"Our life has sort of become a tag-team effort."

Ryan gets that. "The gift was funny. I have a sense of humor." Most people don't know that. Brendon does.

"The funny was sort of predicated upon a certain amount of acceptance, you know?"

Ryan knows. He grabs the two liter and pours himself the root beer that he originally came in to get. "The thing is, Frank didn't mean to hurt me. I just had to. . . I had to understand that."

"I've never seen him mean to hurt anyone."

"Brendon's like that. So much in him that you think could be kind of fierce and wild and dangerous, but mostly he's just sweet." It frustrates Ryan sometimes, but it's a lot of why he loves Brendon, so he can only complain so much.

"You're a different story, though."

Ryan smiles ironically.

"I know about that," Mikey admits.

"Mikey Way? Emo's sweetheart?"

"Amazing what you can hide behind a guitar the size of a bass."

Ryan thinks of Pete. "Yeah."

"It doesn't make you. . . I followed you in here because I cared. If you were okay. And I wouldn't if you weren't worth the effort. I don't have a shit ton of effort to spare."

Ryan can imagine. "I'm good." But maybe better due Mikey's admission, no matter how much he would prefer that weren't true.

"Then I'm going to go back in there to kick all of you people's asses again."

Ryan deadpans, "Oh no. Your time has come Mikey Way." He remembers to grab the M&Ms on the way out.

 

 

*

Brendon makes sure that Spencer's mom doesn't need anything else when the last of the guests have gone. Just in case. She doesn't. He smiles at her anyway, kisses her and says, "Thanks for letting me abscond with your house."

She hugs him and says, "Wanna stay the night, kiddo? You can have Spence's bed. Something tells me he's not gonna be here."

The offer is tempting, incredibly so, but he can't quite make himself say yes, not with Spencer out of the house, not when she spent all day cooking and cleaning and doing everything to give him a party. He's not hers. She's just nice enough to pretend occasionally. He tries his hardest not to take advantage so that she'll see reason to keep up the pretense. "Nah, thanks. I think I might stay with Caddie. Sibling bonding."

"Good for you," she says, and sends him off with a gentle shove.

Caddie is waiting for him in the cooling car. She says, "Not that I don't love having you over, Bren, but you do realize you have the financial capability to keep a place, right?"

Panic isn't quite rolling in it the way most people think, but yeah, Brendon's aware he could have a home if he just looked and signed a lease and did all those things that adults do, but he's done that once before and he can remember how lonely it was at night, even when he should have been too exhausted to feel lonely. Now, now that he technically _can_ go back to his parents house, doing it again seems like admitting defeat.

"Cad, can we not?"

She looks over at him. "Yeah, okay."

"Sorry, just—"

"Don't, Bren. Don't be sorry. I just worry. You seem—"

Brendon probably seems a lot of things.

"I'd just like to see you have a place you can go to. A safe place."

Brendon has a bus and a boyfriend and two bandmates, but he doesn't know how to tell Caddie that without hurting her feelings. He says, "I just turned twenty. I have a little bit before I have to be a real adult, don't you think?"

Caddie rolls her eyes. "So, s'mores on the gas range tonight?"

"You didn't think I came to your place to see you, did you?"

Caddie laughs. "Oh, _perish_ the thought."

 

 

*

There's a text from Ryan in the morning. "where are you?"

Brendon types back, "Stop emulating Pete. Or, alternately, illiteracy. Capital letters are your friends."

"where?"

"Caddie's."

"need a ride back to the cabin?"

"No, Ryan, my legs work fine."

"what time, asshole?"

The question stops Brendon, because normally Ryan would just tell him what time he was coming to get him and that he'd best be ready. "When were you heading out?"

"whenever"

He's barely managed to type "Ryan" when the question, "having a good time?" comes through. Brendon doesn't really get to see Caddie all that often, not even necessarily when he's in town. She comes around to family gatherings to see him, but she doesn't like the tension caused by his presence, by all the things not said, so she cuts out early on a fairly regular basis. She apologizes to him later, but he gets it, he does. "We made s'mores."

"food of the gods"

"Don't you doubt it, Ross."

"wanna stay longer? i can come back."

"I think she needs her space back."

"you sure?"

"Come get me, Ryan."

"now?"

"This afternoon."

"what time?"

"Two okay?"

"two"

"Thanks."

"go be with caddie"

Brendon listens to his boyfriend.

 

 

*

Ryan comes in and stays for lemonade when he arrives. Then Brendon thanks Caddie for keeping him and she holds him tight and says, "Any time, Bren."

She looks at Ryan, who shrugs as if to say, "I try to tell him."

Brendon kisses Caddie's cheek. "I'll come back soon."

She pushes him gently away. "You're always saying that."

"Before we go on tour again," he tells her, "promise." He makes a cross over his heart.

She rolls her eyes at him. "Yeah, yeah. Go on."

Brendon goes. Ryan starts up the engine and he says, "Thanks for the ride."

It's Ryan's turn to roll his eyes. Brendon ignores him. "Wanna help me fill my candy machine when we get back?"

"Wanna help me write a song when we get back?"

"My idea was more fun."

"We have different definitions of fun, Brendon Boyd Urie," Ryan says sternly.

Brendon grins. "Not _that_ different."

Ryan laughs. Brendon asks, "Spence back yet?"

"Yeah. He stopped by to make sure his mom didn't need anything and then drove back."

"He okay?"

"It really would have been much easier if we could have all been gay for each other."

Brendon laughs, then says, "Poor Spence."

"Yeah," Ryan says, and goes silent in that way that Brendon knows he's thinking too damn hard about something.

Brendon says, "He'll be okay, Ryan."

"What? Oh. I know."

"Then what tangent have we skipped to now?"

Ryan doesn't deny the skipping. He doesn't answer the question, either.

"Oh, I have to guess? Hm, okay, let's see. Is this the one where we never actually get the record finished—"

"No."

"Okay, maybe the one—"

"I don't think I've mentioned this one yet."

"Oh, that's just not fair."

"Life," Ryan tells him.

"I am dating the world's biggest asshole," Brendon tells the dashboard dispiritedly. It neither agrees nor disagrees. "Um, okay. You want to run off and join The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence?"

"No, but, hm," Ryan says thoughtfully.

Brendon realizes he'd best stop before he gives Ryan any more ideas. "I'll give you five dollars if you tell me what you're thinking."

"My thoughts are worth considerably more."

"I'll blow you, too."

"Sold."

Brendon waits for a bit before prompting. "So..."

"I just don't like that you don't have anywhere to go when we're home."

"I offered five dollars and a blow job for _that_?"

"Oh shut the fuck up. I was going to say that we should find a solution."

"Yeah, that was implied by your 'I don't _like_ ' statement."

"No, Brendon. Not _you_ should find a solution, _we_ should."

Brendon thinks about it. "No, I still have no fucking clue what you're talking about."

"I've been leasing month by month for five months now. I can get out of it any time. If I wanted to, say, find a two or three bedroom. With someone else."

Ryan's grip on the steering wheel is causing his knuckles to whiten. Brendon blinks. "Oh."

"I mean, I know we live on a bus together and sometimes in a cabin and it's probably not—"

"We would sign our names next to each other," Brendon says.

"What?"

"On the lease. Both our signatures. That would be— _Ryan_."

"Still regretting the offer of the blow job?"

"If you don't drive faster, you're gonna find out how much I don't right here in this car." Brendon hears the engine rev just slightly. "Better," he says.

 

 

*

Invariably, the apartment search becomes a Band Affair. Brendon thinks that's probably for the best, since sometimes Spencer knows how to translate Ryan in ways that not even Brendon can manage and Jon has been an adult for a surprisingly long time despite not being that much older than any of the rest of them, except Spencer, who's really the most adult-like after Jon. In a way. It varies, really. Brendon generally comes at the bottom of the list, though, and he's okay with that. Somebody in the band's got to act his age.

Ryan wants something outside the city. He doesn't want to pay city prices or deal with city traffic. Brendon tries not to tell him that he really doesn't give a fuck where the apartment is, so long as it's his and Ryan's. Spencer says, "Maybe you guys should consider a condo, so that you're building equity."

Brendon says, "Maybe in a couple of years," because he gets that it's sort of a thing that Ryan's offered to have a space that's validly shared, rather than just letting Brendon into his. They should take this easy.

Spencer looks at where Ryan and Jon are apartment-shopping online and says, "Yeah, okay, point."

Brendon goes to stand behind Ryan. He says, "Anything?"

"Yeah, a few places. I bookmarked them." Ryan gets up to allow Brendon the chair.

Brendon sits and flips through the links. They all sort of look the same to him. Spacious and clean. It's a considerable change from the last time he was trying to find a place. Because he thinks Ryan probably needs him to have some input on this decision he asks, "They all allow cats, right?"

"Yeah."

"I like the Diamondback and Eagle Trace places best."

"Yeah, that was sort of what I was thinking. Diamondback's got a better location."

"Wanna set something up?"

"I think Jon's already doing that." Ryan tosses his head in the direction where Jon is on the phone, pad in front of him, pen in hand.

"How likely do you think it is we can do this without every girl in America knowing by next weekend?"

"Jon asked if there were any guys working in these offices."

"Smart," Brendon says.

"We're thinkers," Ryan tells him.

"We should still wear hats."

"And possibly fake facial hair," Spencer says. Ryan chokes on the sip of water he was taking.

 

 

*

By the third apartment, when Brendon says, "I like the view," (he said, "I like the color" and "I like the closets" respectively on the first two) Ryan snaps, "Would you mind actually having a fucking opinion?"

Brendon gives Jon time to draw the apartment manager away before saying, "I like the fucking view," in as calm a tone as he can manage.

Spencer says, "Ryan—" but Brendon says, "Spence, can you—" and Spencer goes to go check out the view.

"You _like_ everything. I could take you to a place with peeling paint and you'd say you _liked_ the fucking potential. Only, I sort of know you, Brendon Urie, you're capable of so much more than like."

"If you took me to a place with peeling paint, Ryan Ross, I would know that you would cover it with pictures of Morrissey and the framed Mary Poppins print that you think nobody knows you have and I would come home when we were home to you and the things that make you happy and that, _that_ I would fucking exult in, yes."

"This isn't my home, it's _ours_. But if you won't help me make any of the decisions then it can't be."

Okay, Ryan has a point with that. Brendon has never really been expected to help in a decision like that, his opinion has never actually been valuable in this sort of instance. He might not have realized that being open to anything wasn't all that big a help to Ryan.

"Also," Ryan says into the silence of Brendon's thoughts, "I'm not ashamed of my Julie Andrews thing."

"You are too," Brendon says absently. "You shouldn't be, but you are."

Ryan frowns. Brendon tilts his head. "I'm not crazy about the location on this place, and I don't like that the last one wasn't gated, not with it being fairly close to the school. The first one was good, but I think we could do better, I sort of like that these places have fireplaces even if we would only ever use them late at night, I just like mantles. They're good places to put photographs."

Ryan nods. "Okay. Okay. That was useful."

"I really will be happy wherever we sign, is the thing," Brendon explains.

"I know, I know. I _get_ that. I— I get it. But better than happy would be good. You wear better than happy well. And someone's gotta balance out my emo."

"Let's keep looking," Brendon says.

"Okay," Ryan agrees.

"We can't just be putting Mary Poppins anywhere."

"Blow me."

"Promises, promises."

 

 

*

Finding a place is anti-climactic. Brendon wanders into the second bedroom area of the fifth place they visit and says, "The keyboard would fit really nicely under that window," and somehow, that's the deciding factor. They've signed for a year within a week and they hire movers for the first of the month.

Jon and Spencer help them unpack and set up. Spencer runs out to get them things like toilet paper and basic food products, the sort of thing both of them evidently forgot. Jon helps Spencer set up the kitchen and says, "It's a good thing they're never going to be left here for too long at one stretch."

Brendon sticks out his tongue. Spencer and Jon go back to the cabin when the furniture is seemingly in place, and they’ve hung their clothes up, gotten the instruments set in the right places and the pictures on the mantle. Spencer arranges those; he has a good sense for what makes a home look like a home.

Brendon and Ryan decide where to put Mary Poppins when the other two are gone. It's not as if they don't know, but Ryan _is_ slightly ashamed, and doesn't feel the need for everyone to see him being careful with it. Brendon forces the issue a lot, making Ryan put it in the hall, where visitors will see it on their way to the bathroom. It's too cool to be completely hidden away. It's an original print. It was the first thing Ryan bought when they actually got a little bit of money off the album, one of the few completely indulgent presents for himself Brendon has ever known him to buy.

Brendon helps him get it up so that it's straight and centered. He stands behind Ryan when they've finished and kisses his shoulder gently, not pressing into him. Ryan says, "We should make this home."

"Got any ideas?" Brendon asks.

"Kiss my shoulder again."

Brendon does.

"Take my shirt off."

Brendon can follow directions really well when he puts his mind to it.

"Now yours." Ryan isn't even looking at him, so it seems like a waste, but Brendon does it.

"Kiss the back of my neck." Ryan waits for it to be done. "Now my shoulder. Shoulder blade. Other shoulder." Ryan takes a breath. "My wallet's in my back pocket. There's a condom in there. Take it out."

Brendon goes for the wallet.

"There's a thing of lube in the front pocket."

Brendon reaches around. Ryan's obviously been thinking about this.

"Now take my pants off." Ryan's shoes are already off, it's an easy thing to slip the jeans down.

"Now yours."

Brendon barely even stops to unzip himself.

"Put my hands up against the wall," Ryan whispers, sounding less sure. Brendon won't let him falter. He draws Ryan's arms up and plants his hands against the wall.

"Fuck me?" A mere figment of sound. Brendon kisses his shoulder again, this time without instruction. He reaches down where he dropped the lube and slicks up his fingers, taking this easy. Neither of them are in that big a rush. This is big, but they've also been moving all day, they're worn. This is a reward, a touchstone, a moment of establishment. Brendon doesn't have to hurry.

When he's ready, he pushes in easy, pulls Ryan farther into him, holds their bodies close without pulling Ryan from the wall. The wall is important, part of this. He establishes a rhythm, easy and gentle, nothing particularly interesting or impressive. Brendon whispers, "We're _home_ ," and reaches down to touch Ryan, wrap around him, bring him into the in-out-in-out Brendon's set up. When Brendon is getting pretty close, and is not all that concerned with trying to hold on, Ryan says, "Home," and comes.

 

 

*

Mikey's voice, just his, "Hey," almost makes Ryan hang up the phone, but Mikey has already seen the number, Ryan knows, so that would just be stupid at this point.

"Hi," Ryan says, because that is what people say when they call other people.

Mikey asks, "How are you?" and yes, that is traditional as well.

"Good," Ryan tells him. "You?"

"Fine," Mikey says slowly. "Little confused."

That's pretty fair. "Yeah." Ryan lays his head on the table and tries to say something, anything, really, even if it's not what he called to say.

Mikey saves him. "How's the writing going?"

"Better," and okay, there's something Ryan can say, "Brendon took me to Circus, Circus a little while ago. It helped."

"Is that the one with the rides?"

"A few of them have rides, but yeah, it's the one with lots of rides."

"And that...helped with the writing?"

Okay, not as logical as it seemed in Ryan's brain, but he only realizes that after, when Mikey has asked and he has to remember all the steps involved in that situation. "It was a closure thing."

"Closure's good." Mikey sounds like he actually gets that, even without context.

"He's always— Brendon always—"

Mikey waits what feels like an almost interminably long time before asking, "What's he do, Ryan?"

"He fixes me. He—" Ryan hates not having words, hates it. Words are his, his friends, his allies, _his_ and when they desert him, it is the worst of possible betrayals. "He fixes me and I break him."

"It doesn't work like that," Mikey says. Then he asks, "Something happen?"

"No." Not really. Not anything important. Ryan doesn't close his eyes. The nightmare will come back.

"Well, okay. Because you just called me, and um. That's not—"

"Spencer misses Bob. He misses Bob and he's always having to be The Guy, you know? And I just thought—" Ryan doesn't know what he thought. Well, he does, but evidently his mouth and brain have no interest in sharing.

"It's not— I like that you called."

Ryan does close his eyes, then, risks the nightmare. "Have you ever, I mean, probably not, because Mikey Way and all, but have you ever hurt someone in a way that you shouldn't have been able to take back but they let you? And you know, you know the forgiveness was real because they don't lie, not to you, but you did it, maybe you did it many times, different ways but over and over and you really don't understand how they could have, forgiven you, that is?"

"Yes," Mikey says. Ryan's a little impressed he followed. Ryan's a lot impressed by his easy, decisive honesty.

Ryan says, "Sometimes, in the moments before I wake up, he's not there with me. In my head. He is, if I could just open my eyes I would see him, feel him, but he's not and it's just—"

Mikey waits until it's clear he's not going to finish. "It's just enough to make your chest feel like it's pressing into your back? Like you'll never breathe again, not ever and you can't remember how you ever did?"

At least one of them remembers language and it's uses. "Yes."

Mikey says, "Not that I don't appreciate the call, but I think you should go find him, Ryan."

"I don't like— He'll just have to fix me some more and he's cautious, because I made him that way, I broke him until he couldn't be anything else."

"Maybe it wasn't breaking. Maybe he was just— We all rework ourselves to fit more completely with others. The more we want to fit, the more reworking is generally involved."

Ryan knows that, he does, because he's changed too, learned to fit in other ways around Brendon, but he's become something more, something better. "He doesn't even know when he's safe with me."

Mikey says, "Go find him, Ryan. Tell him— Tell him to touch you, or whatever, whatever it is you think he doesn't know. Go tell him and find out he does."

"And if he doesn't?"

"I tend to keep my phone on."

Ryan digs his fingernails into his knee. "Mikey."

"Yeah?"

"Um. You know."

There's a small laugh. "Yeah, I know. Go."

 

 

*

Brendon's still mostly asleep when Ryan goes back, crawls back in the bed, presses himself to Brendon's side. Brendon wakes up at that, moves deliberately to let Ryan farther in should Ryan so choose. Ryan does. Brendon murmurs, "Hey, Ry."

"Mikey said to find you," Ryan tells him the second before he realizes that he's begun mid-thought.

Brendon rolls with it. He always does. "Mikey said that?"

"I called him."

Brendon rubs circles in Ryan's back. "I didn't know you guys talked."

"Not a lot."

"Something happen? I miss it?"

"Nightmare," Ryan admits. He has no plan to tell Brendon what it was about.

Brendon doesn't ask. He keeps his grip loose and says, "You're safe. Spence and Jon and I, we aren't going to let anyone touch you."

"Except you," Ryan says, and then realizes it sounds wrong. "I mean. You can touch me."

Brendon's fingers are still, though.

"I _want_ you to touch me. I want... That's your right. It always was, I just—" Ryan shakes his head, his forehead brushing along Brendon's.

"It wasn't, Ry. It wasn't my right to scare you, to take away the space you'd established."

"But then it was your space, and I never told you. I pushed you out of it." Ryan remembers the way Brendon gave, fell away from his hands. The way he skidded on the floor.

"You pulled me back in, too. And the space had already been disturbed. I knew better."

"But you shouldn't—" Ryan tenses, and sighs when Brendon loosens his grip even further. "I taught you wrong. I fucked up, Brendon. I messed you up and you were good, you were good before I got you—"

"Shut up," Brendon says, his jaw tight.

"You danced with me, you took me out and danced—"

"Shut the fuck up, Ryan Ross. Don't you dare suggest to me that what I've done to keep you has made me less. You have no fucking right."

"You're not less," Ryan says softly. He's never once seen Brendon diminished, and he's looked a lot. If Brendon's fractured, it doesn't mean any of his pieces are missing. "But you— Then you would have held on, now you're—" Ryan moves in Brendon's grip, can move.

Brendon says, "I've learned other ways to hold. You taught me that. Better, maybe. Ways that won't leave bruises."

"And if I want bruises from you?"

"Then you know what happens when you ask me for things."

Ryan does, that's the problem. It makes it worse that Brendon is looking at him, one-third anger, one-third hope, one-third expectation. It makes it worse, because Ryan is going to ask, he is. "Hold me, Brendon. This way. So I can feel it." _So when I close my eyes, you're still there._ Ryan feels the bruises forming. He says, "Tighter."

 

 

*

Ryan answers his phone with, "You were right."

"It happens," Mikey says, sounding a bit derailed and yet pleased all the same.

"About going to him, you were right." Ryan shifts so that he's curled on his side, up against the back of the couch. The bruise on his arm throbs, a sweet, cautious reminder of what is his.

"Oh. Well, I sort of knew that, but good."

Ryan plays the conversation back in his head. "That wasn't why you called."

"No."

"Did I ruin it? I mean—" Ryan knows how it can be, when he gets himself set to say something and something else intervenes and then he can't.

"No, Ryan. No. I just. Wanted to be honest."

Honesty, in Ryan's experience, is often as destructive as deception. He is slow to say, "Okay."

"You asked if I had ever— You asked about me hurting someone."

Brendon had flown from the push, launched from it. Ryan makes himself focus. "I asked."

"It was Frank. I hurt Frank."

Ryan thinks about the two of them, the way they are so utterly, perfectly, eternally safe in each other's space. It's not that he doesn't believe Mikey, but, "Define hurt."

"Back when— Before I took the break. Frank was trying to help. It was a bad idea, the way he tried, but he was just trying, and I— I shoved him against a wall and rubbed off on him. He was— I almost broke his wrist. Y'know, because the rape wasn't enough. And I threw a glass at him. It broke."

The sound of shattering glass echoes in Ryan's bones. He takes a moment to breathe. He tries not to ask, he does, but in the end he has to. "Why'd he forgive you?"

"I think— I think it's because he loves me."

Ryan knows the truth of that, too. He went back and went back and went back. The difference is, "You don't keep hurting him."

"No. I mean. I try not to."

Ryan says, "I do." He says, "I got that from my dad."

"I don't know, Ryan. I don't think you do. I don't think Spence and Jon would let you."

"How many people know about what you did to Frank?"

Mikey is silent.

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

 

 

*

Ryan sends the email to four people: Jon, Mikey, Frank, and Spencer. Jon because he's saved them before, even if maybe he shouldn't have. Mikey because he's been listening. Frank because he's already seen. And Spencer for all of the above reasons. Mostly because, well, Spencer. The email says, "I need help." It's sort of a big thing, because Ryan has learned to ask sparingly, and only when it is truly necessary. He is neither boy nor wolf, but sometimes he is as desperate as either. It is then, and only then, that he can cry.

Spencer replies to all. "Tell us more."

Ryan sends back, "Not on email. I need to see you. Or talk. Can we conference with our cells?"

Mikey is the one to reply-all this time. "How about you three get in one room with a speaker phone and Frank and I do the same? Will that work?"

So they set up a time and Ryan says to Brendon, "You have to let me have Spencer and Jon Friday afternoon."

Brendon pouts. "That doesn't leave me anybody to play with."

Ryan says, "You can borrow my guitar."

Brendon perks up. "Seriously?" Ryan nods. It's the least he can do. He's taking three-fourths of Brendon's band from him.

Friday afternoon Jon and Spencer sequester themselves in Ryan's room with Ryan's Sidekick lying on the bed in the middle of them, set to speaker phone. Ryan dials Mikey's number. Mikey says, "You have a bizarre punctuality to you."

Frank says, "It turns me on."

Spencer snickers. Ryan gives him the look of, "hey, _my_ side, remember?" Spencer is not contrite. Jon reaches his hand out just in case Ryan should want it. Ryan considers, but then takes the offer. Jon has come because he asked.

"What's this about?" Spencer asks. Spencer is the only one who knows how to ask, Ryan knows. It makes him feel mean.

"You all— The four of you, and maybe some others, you know that I reshaped Brendon. I didn't mean to, I just— Shouldn't have let him get as close as he did." Ryan thinks of the time he wandered into a Vegas hotel and saw a glass-blowing demonstration, watched the years and years of sand and erosion and compaction melt under the heat, reform. It had been prettier than when the artist had started, but the artist had known what she was doing. Therein lay the difference. "But I did and he did and now I have to... Now I owe him."

Frank says, "Brendon loves you. That's not reshaping, that's— That's his choice, Ryan."

"You don't see him every day. You don't know the way he— The way I taught him so hard he can't move past the lesson to come up with his own paradigms, his own theories." Ryan looks to Jon and Spencer.

Jon asks, slowly, "What did you have in mind?"

Ryan takes a breath. "I've tried telling him, telling him and telling him about the things he can do, how he has rights. Only he doesn't believe me any more. It's not that he doesn't listen, he just doesn't understand the change in my words. But with the four of you, it hasn't been the same words over and over for two years."

There's a long silence. Spencer is looking at Ryan when he finally asks, "What do you mean?"

And this is the part they have to agree to. They have to. "I'm going to ask one last thing of Brendon. That he tell me everything he wants. Every little thing. That he is honest. And the four of you, the four of you will have to be there for these parts, even if very rarely, even if over the phone, have to be there and tell him that he can have them, because he knows I trust you, he knows you wouldn't say it if I hadn't given you permission and I just have to hope, _hope_ that he can hear it."

Mikey says, "Ryan." Jon's eyes widen slightly. Spencer's narrow.

Frank says, "That's kind of...intimate."

"I think— I think if he sees that I could trust us in the hands of others, that I would, for us, that he'll start to see. He'll hear you, and he'll see reality and, well. It might not work. It might be the stupidest, worst plan ever. But it's my first plan. I'm sure I can come up with others." Ryan will, if this doesn't work. He will if this one doesn't kill him.

Jon says, "He wouldn't want you hurt in the process."

"Then don't hurt me," Ryan says, and it's maybe a plea, but he trusts these people, he does. They've all tried their best to help, every last one of them.

Spencer, who can say no to Ryan better than anyone in the world and yet uses the power sparingly, says, "We try this for a week, and see."

"I can do a week," Jon agrees, because Jon often follows where Spencer leads.

"A week, huh?" Frank asks.

"It's not a lot of time to ask for," Mikey says, mostly, it seems, to himself.

There's a bit of a silence and then Frank says, "All right Ryan Ross, you've got yourself helpers."

Ryan closes his eyes. He mouths, "Thank you," and hopes that somehow, somehow they all hear. Spencer translates for him.

 

 

*

The second part, of course, is that Ryan has to convince Brendon. He would have made this the first part, only then would have felt stupid if the others hadn't agreed. Also, Brendon is an easier sell. Brendon will agree because it matters to Ryan. And if that isn't everything that's wrong with the situation, Ryan just doesn't know what is.

He also knows, though, that if a person doesn't take advantage of the problems in a relationship, use them to heal things, then they're no good, then nothing is any good. He doesn't know how he knows that, except maybe Spencer taught him just by doing, just by patching things up no matter what. It doesn't matter where the knowledge came from, its power is his.

Brendon is on Ryan's bed, playing Ryan's guitar. Ryan comes in the door and Brendon starts to take it off, but Ryan sits behind him and loops his arms around, placing Brendon's hands back on the guitar, with his covering them. "Enjoying yourself?"

"I figured out that I should have asked why you needed Spencer and Jon."

Ryan smiles into Brendon's neck.

"You're touching me a lot, and you gave me your guitar. Am I dying?"

"How would I know? Are you?"

"Not last I checked."

"Good," Ryan says. He's pretty unclear on what the fuck he would do if that happened.

"Seriously, it's nowhere near my birthday, what'd you need Spence and Jon for?"

"They're going to help us out with something."

"Us?"

"Yes."

"Then why—"

"Because I needed them to agree before I asked you to."

"Ry—"

"From now on, when you wanna do something to me, anything, you have to say it aloud. You have to say it, even if you don't think you should, even if you're scared I'll get mad. And then Spence or Jon or Frank or Mikey will tell you you can. Do it."

"What?"

"What part caught you?"

"How would they know what I can and can't do?"

"Because I gave them permission to tell you. Because I trust them to know."

"And you don't trust me?"

"I trust you not to hurt me. I don't trust you to take what you want anymore."

"Ryan—"

"They said they'd try it for a week. Agree to try it for a week."

"Frank and Mikey?"

Ryan says, "You understand," because he knows Brendon does. Brendon always understands.

"This is kinda fucked up."

"You're the one who fell in love with me." Ryan isn't taking the blame for that. He's pretty sure he did everything in his power not to encourage it.

"One week?"

For starters. "Yeah."

Brendon strums the guitar. Ryan feels it in his palms.

 

 

*

The first time Ryan feels Brendon's gaze on him he has to say, "Say it."

Brendon glances over at Jon and Spencer who are involved in a cutthroat game of Uno. Ryan repeats, "Say it."

"I wanna lay my head on your chest. Listen to you breathe. You breathe differently when you're trying to write."

Spencer says, "Go do it, Brendon."

Brendon looks at Ryan.

"Now, Bren," Jon says softly. Brendon listens. He falls asleep while he's laying there and Ryan thinks up a whole song about love that he knows he'll never write down, let alone record.

The second time Ryan only has to command, "Say it," once before Brendon says, "I want to run my feet up your legs, to the inside of your thighs."

They're all sitting at the dinner table, eating. Jon says, "Do it," and looks past Ryan's shoulder, out one of the windows.

Spencer says, "Brendon."

Brendon's feet are cold and Ryan laughs at their touch. He doesn't pull away. Jon and Spencer know what he can take. _Brendon_ knows more than either of them and that's the point, isn't it? The point of all this.

The third time Ryan still has to say, "Say it," but when Brendon says, "I want to put my chin on your shoulder," and Spencer says, "Go for it," Jon doesn't have to push. Ryan fits his back against Brendon's chest. Brendon's breathing is even. Things can only get harder from here.

 

 

*

They're in the middle of a game of Guitar Hero when Spencer tugs his earphones out and asks Brendon, "Are you paying attention at all?"

"Not really?" Brendon sheepishly removes his own earphones. "Sorry."

Spencer kills the game. "What's got your attention?"

"I'm supposed to say what I want," Brendon starts. He means to go on but the problem is that Ryan has given him this thing and he gets, he gets that it's this huge gift and that it has the potential to make things better—they're not broken, no matter what Ryan thinks, they're not. It's hard to say anything that might seem ungrateful in the face of that.

Spence tilts his head. "Is this something we should all be here for?"

"Maybe," Brendon admits.

"Stay here," Spencer tells him. Brendon lays down on the sofa, but other than that, he listens. Spencer returns with Jon—who inserts his lap under Brendon's head—and Ryan, who sits on the arm of the couch. Spencer stands behind him. "Okay, Brendon."

"I'm _supposed_ to say what I want," Brendon tries again and this time forces the issue, so that Spencer won't have gotten Ryan and Jon for nothing. "But am I allowed to say what I don't want?"

Ryan's really, really good at hiding terror in himself, but Brendon knows him too well for either of them to be fooled. Ryan says, "Of course."

"Because I love Jon and Spence, but I don't want them watching us have sex and I think maybe that was how you meant for this to go down." Mostly, Brendon thinks Ryan meant for Jon to help with that, which makes sense, because he has before, so what is it to ask again, only it _is_ something to ask again, especially knowing now what it must have done to Jon to give Brendon over, to use his opportunity to fix instead of steal and utterly destroy.

Ryan nods. "All right. What if someone was hearing us?"

Brendon has forgotten that there were two other names on the list of people he could ask permissions of. "Mikey and Frank?"

"I was thinking Frank. Frank—" Ryan looks away, but Brendon knows. Frank has seen them touch, he has given them new ways to touch each other.

Frank was never in love with either of them. "Okay."

"Okay?"

Brendon nods. "I can do it that way, if you can."

"I think I can," Ryan says softly. Brendon watches him for a moment, marveling in the way Ryan can make honesty an utter gift, even when he's telling a person things he doesn't want to hear.

Brendon says, "I want to kiss you right now. I want to let you know you're doing such a good job."

"Am I doing the right thing?" Ryan asks.

"Thought you didn't believe in right and wrong."

"I don't believe in binaries, it's not exactly the same thing, and you didn't answer my question."

"I want to kiss you," Brendon says again and Jon lifts him to Ryan's lips.

 

 

*

Frank says, "Tell me you're sure about this Ryan Ross."

Ryan looks at Brendon who's sitting on the edge of the bed, watching him. Not touching him. He thinks _Frank has seen before, kinda._ He lies, because there are certain lies that have to be told, certain lies that protect and bolster. He lies because if this part doesn't get fixed, this whole thing will have been a sham, worthless, and Ryan is tired of giving Brendon gifts without value. "I am."

"'Kay." Frank's voice is soft. "If you wanna hang up at any point, you know how to work your Sidekick."

"Frank," Brendon says.

"Yeah?"

"He doesn't hurt me. He thinks he does, but he doesn't."

Ryan makes himself watch the defensiveness burn through Brendon. Frank is slow to say, "It's okay to recognize hurt, and forgive it."

Ryan doesn't wince, he doesn't, although he wants to, can hear Mikey's quiet words rolling through his mind and he's done a lot of things, but not that, not _that_. He doesn't want Frank thinking that of him. Brendon asks, "How is it hurt if he never means it that way?"

"Sometimes things do exist outside their contexts," Frank tells him.

"He's standing in the middle of the room. He does this thing, when he's scared, he loosens all of his muscles as much as he can. It's counterintuitive, but I think it's because he knows if you relax into something it hurts less, even if it's still going to hurt." Brendon is talking to him, despite the fact that Ryan knows these things and Frank does not.

"I want him to come to me."

Ryan should have known, Ryan should have been expecting Brendon to change the rules. But Ryan has pretty much handed those rules over to Brendon. They are his to change. Ryan goes to him, stands before him.

"I want to take his hands, pull him down next to me, push him down, just a bit, lay him out on the bed."

"Yes, yes, yes and yes."

Ryan is impressed by how composed Frank sounds. Ryan is already falling apart at Brendon's tug, being put in some semblance of together by Brendon's hands, which are molding him to the top of the bed.

"I want to peel his clothes off, see him naked, know that I'm the only one he gives that to, really, not even Spencer."

"Yes," Frank says, the permission oddly fervent.

Ryan lies there, lets Brendon have what is his and only his, lets Brendon have what he has never wanted to give to anyone else, not really, not even Pete. Ryan wishes he'd figured that out before he tried. The air in the room is cold and Ryan can't help tensing, shaking a bit with it. Brendon's, "I want to work my hands into his muscles, warm him up with my touch," is reverent.

"He needs to be warm," Frank says. Brendon's hands—which are almost always warm—burn against Ryan's skin, and Ryan has never expected conflagration to be comfortable, but it is so, so damn safe. He knows he will let it take him, let the flames eat him whole, rise from the pile of ashes he trusts Brendon to collect, to keep together. Brendon warms every inch of him, shoulders and tailbone and the bottoms of his feet. Stomach and thighs and wrists. Every part.

Brendon says, "I want him to thank me. I want him to find his own way to thank me."

Disoriented by the heat, the pleasure, the shifting again of how this whole thing works, Ryan whispers, "I want to do the same for you, I want to warm—" Ryan's hands are usually cold.

"Yes, Ryan," Brendon holds his gaze. "Yes."

Ryan undresses Brendon and lays him down. He rubs his hands against each other because he will get this right, he will. He starts at Brendon's feet—Brendon gets cold from the bottom up—and Brendon murmurs, "Ry."

Ryan stiffens for the briefest of seconds but then makes himself stop. Frank is listening to them do _this_ , Ryan is trusting him with that, and it's such a small thing, it's such a small part for Brendon to take for himself and why has Ryan never thought about that? Why has he always been so sure the nickname was the beginning of some larger betrayal, rather than just a familiarity, a claim?

Ryan presses his lips to the arch of Brendon's foot even though it's breaking the rules—Brendon hasn't asked for it, and neither has Ryan. Brendon doesn't rat him out. Ryan continues to warm him.

 

 

*

Brendon says, "Frank."

"Here."

"I want to drag him on top of me, want to feel how fucking soft he is against every inch of me, want to hold him to me."

"You don't like to be pinned," Ryan says, before Frank can say anything. He trusted Frank to protect him. It never occurred to him that someone might need to protect Brendon. It's okay though, because Ryan can, Ryan just did.

"Brendon?" Frank asks.

"He doesn't _hurt_ me," and now Brendon sounds frustrated. Ryan knows the feeling.

"Okay," Ryan says. "Okay."

Frank echoes, "Okay." Brendon doesn't waste time. Ryan clings, too, clings like Brendon, and it’s another breach, but he can't help himself.

Ryan whispers, "Sorry. I didn't mean— Sorry."

"I'm not doing much better," Brendon admits. Then, loudly, "I want him to want to kiss me."

"Ryan?" Frank asks, but Ryan's so far ahead of him, so far, already fitting his mouth to Brendon's, already past want, past desire, past need, into something that's only between the two of them, only for them.

After several frantic minutes, Brendon tears his mouth away. "I want to roll over, want to press my hand to his stomach to keep him right where he is, want to suck him, want him to fucking make noise because he doesn't, not normally, he was taught that to be noticed is to invite trouble and even now, even when Spencer and Jon wouldn't make fun, not even if they heard, he's so quiet."

"Try for him, Ryan," Frank says.

"Always," Ryan tells Brendon.

"I know," Brendon tells him. "I know. I just didn't understand."

Ryan nods. "It was hard. I changed the rules."

Brendon rolls over and Ryan is on his back underneath him, nearly powerless and completely safe. Brendon's hand presses hot and gentle against his stomach. Ryan takes a breath, draws in enough air to push up against it. Brendon brings it down just a little bit more, meets him more than half way.

He arches back, his mouth hovering over Ryan's cock. He takes the head in his lips, brings his tongue up over the slit.

 

 

*

Ryan says, "Please, oh please," somewhere amidst his broken breaths and low-pitched moans. Brendon's eyes flash up to him, surprised, and it takes Ryan a second to catch on, because in his head, Ryan is pretty much always begging for Brendon. From start to finish. Brendon pulls off and asks, "Please what?"

Ryan shakes his head. This is about Brendon. But Brendon is a smart, manipulative little fucker. "I want him to tell me what he wants."

Frank says, "Try for him, Ryan," again, which is unfair, because Ryan has already told them the secret, already told him that he can't _not_ try for Brendon. Not even when he's not asking directly.

But the question is a hard one, because Ryan wants, "You to take what you want, whatever you want, when you want. Take me past my edges, be the person who can, you _are_ , you are that person, just keep being him, just—"

Brendon leans over and kisses him. Ryan can taste himself on Brendon's tongue, bitter and bland, softened by the taste of Brendon, by his slapdash mix of flavors. He pulls off and says, "I want to put you on all fours so that I can see the absolute perfect length of your back, the way you're all lines and swirls and art even when you're not sound, which is unfair, but you're mine so I sort of _like_ that it's unfair, that nobody else can have you, not like that, and they don't get to see, not the real stuff, not the truest things. So I want you in front of me, on display, on _show_ and then I want to take you, but you wait, you wait for me to tell you you can come. You can beg me for it, you can make all the noise you want, I like your sounds, maybe even better than your skin, the way it just barely hides everything else about you, the way you're so fucking _forever_ underneath your flesh. You can beg but you can't disobey, you have to trust me to know exactly how far you can go, exactly and to take you there, take you there but never make you go too far."

Ryan says, "That's what this is about."

Brendon says, "Let's prove it."

Frank says, "Let's."

Ryan draws himself up on all fours. Brendon makes a small, "Mm," sound. "So utterly fucking _replete_."

Ryan has always been that kid with hands that were too big, knees that stuck out, eyes that didn't quite fit his face. Under Brendon's dark stare, he is none of those things. Brendon moves behind him and for moments on end there is no touching, nothing, and it is agony, the wait, the perusal, but Ryan stays where he is. Brendon says, "Keep yourself just like that for me, Ry. Just like that."

His breath skitters over the plane of Ryan's back and Ryan's arms are already shaking. He will do as told, he will. Brendon sinks his teeth gently at where Ryan's skin just stretches over his tailbone. Ryan allows himself to babble, "Brendon, Brendon, Brendon," because he's supposed to let Brendon know, supposed to let him hear, and because if he does not allow that, he is afraid he will collapse under the combined weights of pleasure and knowledge.

Brendon says, "Ryan," right up against the muscle of Ryan's ass, breath and warm lips brushing over nerves that will take a finger, thank you, will take anything Brendon sees fit to give. Brendon gives his tongue and Ryan wobbles but he keeps himself up. He can. Brendon wouldn't ask him to if he couldn't. Brendon's hands come to hold, to pet at Ryan's hips and Ryan shifts some of his weight into the hands. Brendon takes it. He always does.

 

 

*

When Ryan thinks he will fall, the ripple, lunge, caress repetitions of Brendon's tongue will bring him to his elbows, then his chest he tries to form his sounds, everything he's been telling Brendon, into words, into, "Please."

What he manages does not so much as resemble anything coherent, anything English. Brendon understands. He pulls off and soothes a finger down Ryan's spine, even as he keeps his other hand at Ryan's hip, careful and supportive. Brendon hooks a hand under Ryan's chest. "I'm going to pull him up. I want him to come with me."

"Ryan," Frank says.

"Yes," Ryan tells him. He is weightless in Brendon's pull, complete in the way he settles against Brendon, back to chest, both of them breathing hard, skin the only thing getting in their way. Brendon holds him for a moment and then turns him, seats him at the edge of the bed.

He says, "Remember what I said about not coming," and sinks onto his knees, his tongue riding its way up—and then down—over Ryan's cock. Ryan trembles and makes up words, chords, entire sounds, but he does not come, not even when Brendon takes him all the way and hollows out his cheeks and _sucks_ so hard it nearly hurts. Nearly.

Then Brendon stops, just stops and says, "Remember."

When he flows up and spreads himself and sinks down there is nothing between the two of them and they've never done that and Ryan supposes he's never even thought about it and, "Oh fuck, oh fuck, Brendon, oh oh oh."

"Ryan," Brendon gasps, his lips wet and open and Ryan says, "Please kiss, please," and Frank says, "Oh, kiss him, Brendon," and Brendon does.

Brendon rides him hard and fast, like maybe he's as close as Ryan is. He closes his eyes and says, "Want this to last, want—"

"Later," Ryan pants, "more later."

"Ry," Brendon moans, and then, "want you to touch me, finish me, always taking me, want, want."

Frank doesn't have to say anything. Ryan thinks he might, but whatever it is, it doesn't matter, because Ryan was touching Brendon, bringing him past his own edges before he got through the word "touch." Brendon comes, splashes onto Ryan's hands, his chest, and Ryan holds on, holds out, waits, listens, presses small "pleases," with his lips against Brendon's.

Brendon says, "Want you to know that I listen."

"You do," Ryan says, and he's not just agreeing because he _needs_ Brendon to help him. He's agreeing because Brendon has brought him to this moment through his listening. Sometimes the signals simply became crossed.

"You're telling me you need something."

"Yes." The word breaks into two syllables.

Brendon tightens the muscles in his ass. "Take it from me."

 

 

*

In the morning—early morning, they haven't slept, Brendon wanting to hold on, Ryan wanting to be held—Brendon calls Mikey. Mikey says, "Mwah?"

Brendon whispers, "Sorry to wake you."

"No," Mikey works himself into wakefulness, "no, what did you need?"

"One last thing," Brendon says, his eyes on Ryan. "One last thing, and then we're done."

Ryan nods. If that's what Brendon wants.

"Tell me," Mikey says.

"I want him to lay flat, and hold the headboard, and not let go until I say. Not do anything, unless I say."

"Ryan."

"Mikey?" It had sounded as though that weren't a complete thought.

"Unless he says something, I'm going to assume you're listening."

"Mikey—"

"You listen to him. It's why he forgives you."

Ryan rolls onto his back and brings his hands up to the headboard. Brendon says, "I want not to tell you anything in advance. I want you to take it, take it from me, take it as it comes."

Ryan is still taking a breath, still letting the words sink in when Brendon's teeth find his nipple, close against it sharp and quick. Ryan pants. Brendon lets go and turns the slight edge of pain into something warm, hot, enticing, with his tongue. He doesn't leave the other nipple out.

Everything is a sneak attack. The way his hands soothe gently—too gently—down Ryan's arms and Ryan laughs, _ticklish, ow_ and just when he's had enough, really had enough, Brendon firms up his grip, calms Ryan. The way his knees clutch tight against Ryan's thighs, the press of his thumb at Ryan's navel, the squeeze of his palm at Ryan's balls, the tease of his tongue around Ryan's toes, along the arches of Ryan's feet.

Ryan does not let go, does not think about letting go, does not think much of anything that does not sound like, "yes," like "please," like, "Brendon," like, "trust." "Want to tell you," he breathes out, tortured by his lack of air, by his mind's distracted slowness.

"Tell me anything," Brendon says, finding his way up Ryan, so that his lips brush Ryan's at "any".

"Doesn't mean anything." Except it does, it does mean something, but not the words.

"Oh, _that_ ," Brendon says. Ryan blinks. He hasn't said it, he's pretty sure.

"Spencer told me once, not to expect that. Just in case I was. He didn't want— He told me."

"That why you never—"

"I showed you. I showed you all the time."

"Yes," Ryan says, "yes."

"I don't need to hear it, Ry."

Ryan knows. If he did, Brendon would be long gone by now. "Want to? Want to hear it?"

"No," Brendon says, "you've already told me."

Brendon's mouth is on Ryan's cock so fast Ryan doesn't even see him move, doesn't even really feel him move and it's kind of like that first time, when Brendon still knew how to ignore what Ryan might say, except not, better, because now it's that Brendon knows what he can take, what Ryan wants even when he can't say, what Brendon wants from him and what he's allowed. They have been telling each other things all along.

At some point, Brendon draws far enough off of him to say, "It's okay, Ry, you can, you can, anytime," and when his lips next touch Ryan, Ryan lets go, even as he keeps his hold on the headboard, as Brendon keeps his palms at Ryan's thighs.

 

 

*

Brendon isn't even really thinking about the way the skin of Ryan's ankle feels under his fingers. He _is_ , because the permission is still new, and something he has yet to take for granted, but it's not terribly conscious. Then Ryan looks down at where he's sprawled on the floor and says, "I don't think you're as vanilla as all that."

Brendon's fingers still. "Um. What?"

"I told you you could ask for anything and what you asked for was pretty, you know, bland."

Brendon rolls onto his back to look up at Ryan. "Was there something you wanted?"

Ryan frowns. "You're missing the point."

"Maybe you are. That part where I'm not into doing things that freak you out."

"But if you thought I wouldn't be."

Brendon considers Ryan. He's pulled up his feet now that Brendon's not holding one hostage, leaning as far forward on the sofa as he can without falling off. He doesn't look frightened, just curious. Brendon says, "I wouldn't mind playing around with some toys. Nipple clamps, cock rings, that sort of thing. Just, I dunno, just to see."

"You or me?"

"Both. Either. Whatever you were comfortable with."

Ryan puts his chin on his knees. "What else?"

Brendon closes his eyes. "You on your knees sucking me off while people are watching."

Ryan's intake of breath is sharp and Brendon's stomach clenches. Ryan asks, "Really?"

"I'm a performer," Brendon says, all his edges honed to sword-sharpness. "And you are _mine_."

"Yes," Ryan breathes, and Brendon's eyes fly open.

"That wasn't hesitation."

Ryan shakes his head. His pupils are dilated.

"Oh."

"We should try those things," Ryan tells him.

"Ryan—"

"We'll be careful. But we should try them."

Brendon has forgotten how strong the pull of the utterly forbidden can be, particularly when offered freely. He swallows. "Yeah. Okay."

 

 

*

More often that not of late, Ryan wakes up with every part, every inch of his body having been taken over by Brendon. If he wants to get free without waking Brendon it's a long, careful process. Ryan always takes the time. He's just gotten himself free and is on the hunt for some coffee, possibly some cereal, when Jon looks up from the kitchen table and the _New Yorker_ he's got in front of him and says, "I made almost a full pot."

Ryan smiles gratefully at him and grabs Jon's mug for a refresh. Jon looks over in surprise when Ryan sets it neatly beside him. "Oh, hey, thanks."

Ryan asks, "Anything interesting?" tapping the corner of the magazine.

"Nancy Franklin's pretty frustrated by the state of women's television," Jon tells him. Jon, so far as Ryan is able to tell, reads the thing from beginning to end every month with a faith Ryan has only ever shown Brendon.

"Um, okay."

Jon laughs. "I had a friend at Columbia who used to give me all the ones he'd read. I got hooked. It asks questions in interesting ways. You'd like it."

"I don't even have time to read _Rolling Stone_."

" _Rolling Stone_ tells us things we already know. _New Yorker_ talks about shit we've invariably missed."

That covers an uncomfortably wide field of shit, if Ryan's honest about it. "Maybe I'll borrow it after you're done."

Jon starts in on his second cup of coffee and works his way through the last few pages of the magazine. He closes it up and slides it over to Ryan before standing to take his cup to the sink. He's about to leave the room when Ryan says, "Jon."

Jon turns slightly to him.

"I-- You-- When we--" _Fuck._ Ryan shakes his head and buries his face in his hands, hoping Jon will have the good sense to go away like he was going to before.

Instead Ryan hears the order, "Up," and obeys, because he got himself into this. He could have just kept his mouth shut. Jon closes him in a careful hug. There was a time when Jon's hugs were constricting, even if they weren't meant to be, when Ryan didn't know if he could get free if need-be. Now they're just safe and that's what this is about, what this is all about, but there's too much to say and the words are all ugly.

"Try again," Jon says softly.

Ryan follows that order, too. "I know, I know how much Brendon means to you."

Jon's, "Yeah, I kinda figured," is a long time in coming.

"I didn't, not--"

"I know, Ryan. I know. You're not cruel."

"I try," Ryan says, not flippantly.

"That's over," Jon says softly, and for some reason it's that part that makes Ryan slip his arms around Jon, hold on for his own.

"I just meant, I just wanted to ask, y'know, if I, if what I did was right."

Jon's arms don't tighten or even move, really, but Ryan feels the slight shift in position that he isn't even sure really occurs, so much as happens between them. Jon says, "Ryan."

"No, no, because I fixed him, I know that, but I just-- I just wanted to make sure I wasn't supposed to let go, let him have something better, something he wouldn't need fixing from. Just one last time. In case-- In case it isn't too late."

Jon sets Ryan back from him, far enough away that Ryan can see Jon's face, see the concern and the somewhat bemused fondness. Ryan looks down to see his fingers digging into Jon's wrists, where they slid when Jon pushed him back a little. He tries to loosen them, but they seem to have gone renegade on him. Softly Jon says, "It's an awful comparison, but would you have wanted another father?"

"There were times," Ryan admits.

"But in the end, really, would you have chosen that?"

Ryan's eyes are burning and for a second the sensation scares him until he remembers that's simply what it feels like to cry. He shakes his head.

"No, I didn't think so."

"Jon, I don't want--"

"Your father never tried to be something more than he thought he was for you, Ryan. Not when it mattered. But you do that all the time for Brendon. All the time. You see?"

"He deserves someone who just _is_ more." Ryan keeps his eyes on Jon's.

"Maybe," Jon says softly, "but I prefer to think he deserves what he wants most in the world. And that, Ryan Ross, is you."

"I'm sorry," Ryan chokes.

Jon smiles a little, shakes his head. "I'm really pretty fucking in love with Pete."

"I know, I meant--"

Jon shakes his head again. "Accepted."

Ryan tries to loosen his fingers once again. He still can't. "So...it was right."

"Your instincts are mostly good with him."

"And the rest of the time?"

"The rest of the time there's me and Spence."

Ryan nods, breathes for a few moments on end. Then he looks down at his hands. "I can't let go."

Jon grins at him.

 

 

*

Ryan locks the door behind them and says, "I was gonna save this for tonight and I had other plans for what to do with it, but I guess we can get to that later."

Brendon is a little bit preoccupied, so the only answer he has for that is, "Huh?"

"Stand still," Ryan says, no room for argument in his tone. Brendon stands where he is, shaking from adrenaline and nerves.

Ryan pushes his pants down and Brendon says, "Um, I don't know if I can—"

Ryan sucks on one of his fingers and then slides it up into Brendon, simultaneously taking him as far into his mouth as Ryan can manage. Brendon says, "Okay, maybe yeah."

Ryan grabs the cock ring that he took from his bag right before hauling Brendon in here and—as soon as Brendon's reached full hardness—snaps it around the base. Brendon's breathing quickens. Ryan draws off, looks up at Brendon. "You're going to have to beg for it. Kid."

Then he goes back to work. Brendon whimpers and shudders and stops breathing at times but he waits to beg, waits until he is well past the point of desperation. Ryan makes him beg for a while anyway. It's too fucking hot to do anything else. Brendon's voice curves, falters, breaks over his, _please_ s, his _Ryan_ s, his, _oh, oh, please, I'll do anything_ s. Then, when Ryan's ready, he pulls back a bit, releases the ring and swallows neatly.

He catches Brendon's hips, and then his shoulders, as he sinks to the floor. Brendon says, "I can—"

"Just watch," Ryan gasps, so close, so close already just from Brendon coming completely apart at his hands, his mouth. Brendon's eyes settle on him, dark and sated and Ryan scrabbles to get his pants open. He doesn't have any others for the performance.

 

 

*

Ryan and Brendon watch the rest of the sets, Brendon dancing to _everything_ , even the undanceable stuff, and the songs Ryan knows he doesn't like. It makes Ryan tired just watching, but it's good, excellent, because he needs Brendon worn down just a bit. He is still buzzing when they get back—he deserves it, if he wants to buzz for the next _week_ everyone is damn well going to let him—but he has slowed enough that Ryan can at least keep up with him.

Ryan's buzzing pretty hard too, for Ryan. He throws his clothes off and looks at Brendon expectantly. Brendon grins and says, "Yeah," and by the time they're in the bathroom, they're both naked.

Ryan runs the shower water hot. He says, "Get in, I'll be right back."

He brings the cock ring back, steps in, washes it off with soap and hands it over to Brendon. He tells him, softly, "You can make me beg."

Brendon says, "I know, Ry," and looks at him with an expression that Ryan doesn't quite understand, but doesn't fear, either. Brendon sets the ring aside as they get themselves clean, as he soaps and caresses Ryan into hardness. He doesn't have a long way to go. The combination of all the music and the performance and the anticipation and just Brendon has already done almost all the work for him. When Ryan is fully clean, Brendon sets the ring in place.

The snapping sound makes Brendon—who is already mostly good to go—so hard he actually moans. Ryan laughs, slightly breathless. Brendon turns off the water and towels them both dry, pressing their bodies together, their _cocks_ together and wrapping the towel around them. Then he tosses the towel aside and all-but-skips into the main room. Ryan follows.

Brendon pulls Ryan onto the bed, tight against him and kisses him. "I don't want you to beg. I want you to tell me what you need."

"Need?"

"You can tell me what you want, too. But you _have_ to tell me what you need."

Ryan nods in agreement. Brendon kisses him as a reward. Brendon reaches up and grabs the lube that they've learned to stick under the pillows as a precautionary measure. He slicks Ryan up nice and slow. Ryan whimpers and actually bites his bottom lip when Brendon shifts up a bit, hooks his right leg over Ryan's thighs and sinks himself down onto Ryan's cock. Brendon grins at Ryan the way he did throughout the show—flushed on pride and guttural pleasure. Ryan cranes his neck forward to lick Brendon's lips. Brendon catches Ryan's tongue gently between his teeth.

Brendon rocks a bit, says, "I fucking love your cock," happily, not at all sexily. Ryan thinks he might explode. But not yet. Not quite yet.

One of Brendon's hands slips down to play idly with Ryan's nipples and okay, okay, "Need."

"What, Ry? Just tell me."

"Need to come."

Brendon reaches down between them and opens the release mechanism on the ring. Ryan maybe waited a while to tell Brendon, just to see if he could, and now his orgasm rushes through him with power that would be insulted by the adjective "blinding". He grabs onto Brendon's cock in the midst of it, wanting him to come along, take this ride with Ryan. He's not sure if he manages that, but when the world is something other than black dots and white light again, Brendon is grinning his silly, I-got-some grin. Ryan finds an appropriate grin of his own to share.

 

 

*

Brendon asks Pete for recommendations of tattoo parlors in Burbank, places where, so long as he doesn't take the picture, one of him getting the tattoo won't end up on the web. He doesn't really care if people know—they will, sooner or later—he just wants to give it a few days to heal before showing it to Ryan, and he prefers that Ryan find out before the masses.

The nice thing about Ryan—at least when it's not problematic—is that Brendon can pretend to be kind of worn down and Ryan won't come so much as looking for sex. Granted sometimes Brendon still has to cajole Ryan into curling up with him, but he's getting better about that, too. And given the last several months, Brendon's not complaining about Ryan's level of engagement. At all.

After a few days, Brendon waits in the studio until after Spencer and Jon have given up, when it's just Ryan running himself ragged with his attention to detail. He says, "I'm feeling pretty rested, now."

Ryan looks up and for a second there's irritation on his face. He doesn't like being distracted, but they've been working for almost nine hours, and he needs to stop. He won't get himself any further right now, at least not without a break. Brendon waits for Ryan to recognize this himself. He probably will, if Brendon just gives him enough time. It takes several minutes. Then Ryan says, "Half-an-hour, Urie. Then your prurient pleasures will have to be put on hold."

"I love it when you talk like an eighty-year-old," Brendon tells him.

"I know." Ryan lets himself be tugged away from his music, from his guitar. Brendon grins, kisses him with an energy that's been storing over the past few days, waiting to be let free. Ryan pries Brendon's shirt over his head and Brendon laughs. Ryan can be so utilitarian when he has a purpose in mind, something to get back to. Brendon slips to his knees. He'll show Ryan utilitarian.

Ryan's cock isn't hard to get to, is already set for Brendon's mouth to slip over it, show it a little bit of what's coming. Ryan drags Brendon to his feet when he's ready to, and Brendon isn't above letting his teeth scrape over Ryan's cock oh-so-lightly so that Ryan hisses and says, "Bitch."

He spins Brendon around, pushes him into position against the wall. And stops. Brendon thinks about asking, "See something you like?" but finds he can't, finds his breathe every bit as gone as Ryan's evidently is, because he can't hear the faint in-out rasp that he knows as well as his own.

Ryan says, "Brendon," every letter coming out separately.

"Yours," Brendon says, even as Ryan reaches out, draws a shaky finger across the six strings making their way down Brendon's back.

"Mine," Ryan says, and it doesn't sound like any word Brendon has ever heard, it sounds like a lyric that has no song, that no melody can touch. " _Mine,_ " Ryan repeats and scrabbles to get Brendon's pants undone, to be inside him. The haste makes it hurt just a little, just enough, and Brendon thrusts backward, "Yes. Yes."

Both of Ryan's hands are on Brendon's back, creating chords, plucking out tunes. Brendon is humming with it. He comes as Ryan plays out the first chorus of the first song written on the new album and waits, waits for Ryan to finish playing his song.

 

 

*

The piano set up for their show hasn't been tuned correctly and seriously, _seriously_ , what the fuck, because this is totally something that would have happened during their broke ass days of touring with TAI, but _now_? Brendon's trying his hardest to see if he can work around it while one of the techs is attempting to find a piano tuner, and Ryan just comes up, puts both his hands on Brendon's shoulders and says, "We'll work it out." Then he goes and yells at a whole bunch of people.

Brendon's still fighting with the piano when Ryan comes and sits down next to him on the bench, their knees touching. Brendon says, "You can't do that if you want me to actually do my job."

Ryan doesn't move his knee.

"Seriously, Ryan."

"We have four hours, and that piano isn't going to be any more in tune at the end of them than it is now if we don't find someone to fix it. You're just frustrating yourself."

Brendon crashes his fingers into the piano, the resulting noise calming something in him. He lets his hands slither off the keys and down to where his leg is side by side with Ryan's.

"Better?" Ryan asks.

Brendon sticks his tongue out at the keys. "Little bit."

Ryan laughs.

"You do realize that it's _your_ band I play in?"

"You have no idea how many people I just swore at in my very loudest tone of voice."

"That's hot, why didn't you invite me?"

"You were busy playing with your toy."

Brendon frowns down at the piano, as though the instrument itself is somehow to blame for all of this. He says, "That was chivalrous of you. To yell for me."

"I thought so."

Brendon laughs. Ryan presses his leg further into Brendon's.

"Think they'll get it fixed?" Brendon asks.

"If not, I've talked with Jon, we can play all our songs one register lower."

"I don't know if my voice can always do that."

"Buck up little camper."

"That's all well and good, but your instrument doesn't depend on—"

Ryan shifts his knee. "You can do it."

Brendon thinks of Ryan's hands on his shoulders, warm from the guitar and unbidden, of the quiet pillar of support in the form of his thigh. "Yeah. Okay. Okay."

 

 

*

Ryan goes to Spencer because Spencer often knows things that Ryan can't figure out how the hell he knows. Also, Spencer won't judge or make fun of him for asking, and he definitely won't tell anybody—not even Brendon, if Ryan asks him not to. Ryan catches Spencer when he's alone in his hotel room. Jon is with Brendon, the two of them on a hunt for a good milkshake.

Spencer's on the phone with Bob, so Ryan lays down on the bed and falls asleep while waiting. Spencer wakes him up by settling on the bed next to him. They aren't touching. Ryan asks, "Know anything about nipple clamps?" because the easiest way to do these things is to just get them out on the table.

Spencer takes it in stride. His eyes widen a little and his head pops up, but all he says is, "Um, not personally, no."

"Hm." Ryan will have to do internet research. It's annoying, because research on these issues never really tells a person what he needs to know.

"But Bob thinks that JC is pretty kinky, so I could ask him."

"I'm not having you ask JC Chasez about nipple clamps for me." Ryan can be a bad friend, but that's a little beyond the pale.

"JC wouldn't— It wouldn't be a big deal. He's not—" Spencer shrugs as much as can while chest down on the bed. "He's a good guy."

Ryan considers. He really does want human advice on this. "Maybe you could have him give me a call?"

Spencer cocks an eyebrow. "Yeah?"

Ryan nods. "It's my thing, Spence."

"Okay," Spencer says, "I'll tell him."

"Thanks."

"Naptime?" Spencer asks.

"Naptime," Ryan agrees.

 

 

*

Ryan recognizes the number as the one Spencer has told him is JC's so he picks up with a, "Hi."

"Ryan?"

"Yeah. JC?"

"Spencer said there was something you wanted to talk about."

"It's sort of personal," Ryan warns.

"Um. Okay. Well, I can't guarantee anything."

"No. No, I appreciate the call."

JC waits. Ryan takes a breath and counts to three and makes himself say, "I want to experiment a little."

"What sort of experimentation?"

"Toys. Um, nipple clamps, in particular." Ryan makes himself regulate his breathing.

"Oh, fun." JC sounds delighted, which makes it easier for Ryan to release his shoulders a notch.

"So, you...you like that?"

"Mm, they can be hella hot."

Ryan smiles. He can't remember the last time anyone said "hella" to him. "I was maybe wanting to start off pretty easy."

"Yeah, that's a good idea, since they can be sort of intense. I can send you an email with some links to good products, tell you the pros and cons, that sort of thing."

"Also, um. Also some tips, I guess?"

"Sure, honey. Whatever you need."

Ryan blinks at the endearment. Then at his lack of a negative reaction to it. Softly he says, "I appreciate it. The help. And not making me feel, you know. Stupid."

"That would be kinda hypocritical. I didn't know about this stuff at one time, either."

"Still."

"Give Spence a hug for me, wouldja?"

"Yeah." Ryan can definitely do that.

"I'll shoot you an email."

"Thanks, really."

"You're welcome, really."

 

 

*

Ryan and Brendon read the email together. Brendon says, "That was...thorough."

Ryan has to agree. JC is surprisingly detail oriented. Which is good, because this venture makes Ryan more than a little nervous. Brendon points to one of the less aggressive-looking types of clamps. "Maybe these? To start with?"

It's not a bad idea. JC's even mentioned them as a good beginner pair. But, "Maybe get a few? See which ones work for us?"

"Probably a good plan." They have to ask Zack to order the clamps for them, which is one of the more horrifying moments in Ryan's life, but not as bad as the theoretical (if likely) moment where a purchase of _nipple clamps_ gets traced back to either Ryan or Brendon through their credit cards. For all his fanboy admiration, Ryan Ross is not Pete Wentz.

When the box carrying them arrives, Brendon and Ryan lay them out onto the bed and consider them. After several moments of silence, Brendon kisses Ryan's cheek and says, "When you're ready. If you ever are. If not, that's fine, too. You're enough."

Then he wanders off. Ryan takes each of the pairs in his fingers, tests their bite against the pads, warms the metal slightly in his palm. When he's gotten what he needs he packs them up neatly and goes to find Brendon. He locates him out on the porch and pulls up a chair. "I need you to put them on me first."

"Um. Let me think about this. Oh. No."

"Brendon—"

"You don't like pain."

"I don't mind it."

"That's not the same thing."

"I need to know. I need to know how it feels before I try it on you."

"It won't be the same. We have different pleasure receptors."

Ryan knows, but he still has to try and understand this first. "Brendon, please. Okay? I want to do this. I want to do this. But I need—"

Brendon sighs.

"I'm trying," Ryan says, attempting to make it sound assertive, when it feels small.

Brendon reaches out and pulls Ryan into him, not as slowly as he would have done so before, but not particularly quickly either. He kisses Ryan hard, much harder than usual. "I don't need you to try."

"Want to. For you."

"I guess I should try back, then, huh?"

"Bren—"

"Okay. You first."

"You're—"

"You first, Ry."

 

 

*

Brendon starts slow. Brendon always starts slow when he's nervous. Ryan would tell him to relax, but that seems like a jerky thing to do when Ryan's pretty tightly wound himself. Brendon is kissing him, though, stroking the length of his inner thigh, just being there, with Ryan, and it's hard to be afraid.

They're both hard long before they get naked, Brendon's careful attentions seeing to that. He lays Ryan back and brings his mouth over Ryan's right nipple and if Ryan hadn't been hard before, that would have settled things. Brendon works at the nipples with his mouth until they are hard enough that even a breath ghosting over them is full of fierce sensation. He puts a hand to Ryan's chest and says, "Breathe, Ry."

Ryan inhales and as he hits the bottom of the inhalation, Brendon snaps the first clamp into place. It is biting, burning pain, and for a moment, Ryan nearly asks him to take it off. Then the initial discomfort of it wears off and there are heated waves of pain. But beneath that... Beneath that is something else.

"Keep breathing."

Ryan takes another breath.

"One enough?"

"Brendon," Ryan chides.

Brendon makes a soft sound. "'Nother breath."

Ryan obeys. The second one hurts more than the first, despite the awareness of what is coming—or perhaps because of it. When Ryan has settled somewhat, Brendon very softly kisses each nipple. It hurts like hell. It also burns in his chest like...like arousal. Ryan blinks. "Again?"

Brendon presses a little harder this time and Ryan breathes sharply, trying to feel whatever is there, what's lurking.

"You remember your safe word?"

Ryan does. JC made them promise not to play without them, despite the fact that Ryan is pretty sure if there's a problem, it will be from the two of them not being able to press hard enough. Brendon chose expiallidoscious. He'd wanted supercalifragilisticexpiallidoscious, but Ryan had vetoed a word that started with "super" as a safe word, not to mention one where he'd have to wait a full minute to be sure of what he was hearing.

Ryan's is "adagio". He doesn't want things to slow. He definitely doesn't want them to stop. Brendon nods, "Okay." He lowers himself, slipping his mouth onto Ryan's cock and oh, okay, that's sort of— The _contrast_ is wild and sort of amazing. Brendon reaches up, touches one of his fingers lightly to the clamps. Ryan moans but he also has to hold himself back, because he's not ready for this to be over yet, even if his body is racing ahead of him.

Brendon is looking up at him with interest and approval. He pulls back and says, "Keep breathing," before returning to where he was and releasing one of clamps. The pain is _blinding_ , but so is the way Brendon is looking up at him, watching him try, watching him succeed. As the waves of pain subside Brendon soothes a hand over Ryan's stomach and gets a questioning look in his eye.

Ryan nods. Yes. Brendon releases the other clasp, and Ryan comes through the pain.

 

 

*

Ryan thinks that for Brendon, the clamps are a little bit about the bite. Brendon has gotten used to not asking for the things—for most things—that might startle Ryan, might spook him, might send him running, so he's not _sure_. But he suspects Brendon might like just a bit of edge to his pleasure.

That isn't so much Ryan's thing. He's glad he tried. Glad he could give over to Brendon, to the newness, to the intensity of it. It helps him understand, just a bit, helps him know how far he can go. He doesn't think he'll do it again. Maybe if Brendon asks. Brendon won't ask.

Ryan calls JC and says, "You really, really don't have to answer this, but— You like, um. You like the way it hurts, right?"

"I do," JC tells him. "It's... You know the feeling you get after a show, the rush of too-fucking-much?"

"Intimately."

JC laughs. "It's like that."

That actually makes sense to Ryan. He plans his next move carefully, snatching Brendon up from the back when he's probably least expecting it, and holding Brendon's back to his chest. He slips his hand beneath Brendon's shirt and plays gently with the nipples, taking his time getting them to harden. The clamps go on without warning. Brendon gasps, but doesn't say a word.

Ryan says, "Keep those on for me, yes?"

Brendon nods. Ryan lets him go. While they're practicing Spencer comments that Brendon's sounding a little breathy today. Brendon apologizes. "I think I might have a head cold."

Ryan smirks and concentrates on tuning his guitar.

 

 

*

Brendon doesn't come to Ryan. He's very good, very patient. Ryan takes him back to the room they've been sharing—Ryan thinks it was supposed to be his—and strips his shirt off. Brendon whimpers at the feel of the cloth dragging over his sensitized nipples. Ryan takes a taste. Brendon trembles at his touch. Ryan looks up at him, says, "So beautiful, so beautiful like this." _Mine._

Ryan undresses him the rest of the way. He's hard. Ryan wonders how long he has been. Since Ryan put the clamps on him, hours earlier? Or just now, at the flicker of Ryan's tongue? Either way, Ryan is pleased.

He undresses himself as well, not as slowly, but he doesn't rush it. When he's finished, he pushes Brendon back onto the bed by way of his stomach. He grabs the lube and hands it to Brendon. "Get me ready."

Brendon squeezes and pulls just right, and Ryan has to pull away. They both want something more from this. He hooks Brendon's legs over his shoulders and slides in, establishing a pace that's quick, but not all that hard.

"Guh," Brendon tells him.

Ryan wraps his hand around Brendon's cock. He asks, "Ready to have those taken off, kid?"

"Mm."

Ryan doesn't think Brendon really knows what the hell he's saying, but he seems to be along for the ride, and that's all Ryan needs. He releases the first clamp. Brendon screams, but also gets harder than Ryan has ever, _ever_ felt him be in the shelter of Ryan's hand. Ryan kisses him, takes the scream into himself, waits until Brendon is breathing again to say, "One more," and go.

This time, Ryan is prepared to cover Brendon's mouth with his own, press his hand and Brendon's cock between their bodies and whether it's that or the clamp or the way Ryan is kissing him, Brendon arches up, coming so hard he passes out. Ryan pulls out, because finishing up in Brendon's inert body is just weird. He goes to the bathroom and finishes and when he comes back, Brendon is blinking at him.

"Hey," Ryan says.

Brendon's lips spread into the most blissed-out grin Ryan has ever seen. "Um. Hello."

 

 

*

Brendon finds the plug in his bag when he opens it to get prepped for the show. It's not particularly big, but it widens out to a pretty considerable thickness in the middle. It's black and unobtrusive.

There's a note wrapped around where it slims down. "Think you can keep it in?"

Brendon thinks about sitting down at the piano bench with that thing inside him. Ryan won't be disappointed if he doesn't try. This isn't Ryan's thing, not really. It's Ryan finding ways to compromise, to make Brendon's thing part of their thing. Brendon takes his bag into the bathroom, lubes the plug slightly and fits it inside. It's a tight fit, slightly uncomfortable at first, filling and awkward and desperately, horribly erotic. Because performing doesn't turn him on enough. He's going to put someone's eye out. He'll blame it on Ryan.

Brendon dresses himself and does his hair. He lets Ryan do his makeup, not revealing a thing. Ryan is looking at him with a question in his eyes, but Brendon just acts like he hasn't even seen the thing and carries on. Ryan probably figures it out when Brendon does a small sashay on their opening number and hits his prostate so hard he sees stars. His voice slides in a way it really isn't meant to and although Brendon recovers quickly, he knows Ryan has caught it. And understands. He expects him to be a little pissy, but when he looks over, it really seems as if Ryan's trying not to smile. Brendon would be annoyed, but he's feeling too good and Ryan's interest isn't hurting that at all.

The entire show is a blur of breathless urgency and when Jon says, "On fire, Urie!" Brendon _explodes_ with laughter. Jon just pets him on the head and goes to change, clearly used to Brendon's completely acontenxtual responses to situations. Ryan pulls Brendon into one of the changing rooms, locks the door and goes to his knees. He has Brendon's pants down before Brendon can even say, "I win."

As it turns out, it's all right that Brendon doesn't get the chance, because Ryan's all about rewards just then, sliding his mouth right onto Brendon's cock, pushing and twisting ever so slightly on the plug. Brendon can't help it, he's been harder than cement for almost two hours, he comes before Ryan can even get a second suck in. Ryan swallows with his eyes open, focused on Brendon, his eyes mischievous and triumphant. He pulls the plug from Brendon even as he slips off of him and says, "Fuck, watching you? Knowing that you had my toy in you?"

Brendon tugs Ryan to his feet and cups his cock through his pants. "Pretty ready to go too?"

Ryan moans.

 

 

*

Ryan calls Mikey who says, "Hey, trouble."

Ryan rubs a hand over his face. "You've no idea."

Mikey chuckles. "What's on your mind?"

"I... Look, I have another favor to ask." Ryan closes his eyes. He's going to die with unpaid debts to Mikey Way and Frank Iero, doomed to wander this earth in spirit form until he can offer restitution.

"Yeah?" Mikey asks. "If I can."

Ryan takes a deep breath and then lets out his thoughts all in that single breath, afraid that if he pauses, he won't start again. "Brendon wants someone to watch us and we have to be careful because, well, me, and also, band, and normally I would just do Jon, but Pete wouldn't, or if he _would_ he'd need to be there and _that's_ a really fucking bad idea, and Spencer wouldn't be hot because, um, brother, and JC would be good but I think Gerard might be possessive and asking him is a little weird, I mean I know he's your brother but we don't really know him that well and you guys have already—"

"Ryan, holy shit. Breathe before you pass out and I have to call Brendon and tell him I let you asphyxiate yourself into unconsciousness."

Ryan has forgotten how to breathe, but it is slowly coming back to him.

"Okay, what I got from that—and just correct me if I'm wrong—is that you and Brendon would like someone to watch you guys have sex, and you think Frank and I are your best option."

"This is awkward," Ryan states, probably unnecessarily.

Mikey laughs. "Relax. That's a pretty normal kink."

"I know." Ryan does. Still.

"I need to talk to Frank."

"Yeah." Understatement, Ryan thinks, but doesn't add.

"I'll give you a call tomorrow?"

"Can't wait," Ryan says. Mikey laughs again.

 

 

*

Mikey asks, "Is there anywhere you want us?"

"Chairs by the window," Brendon tells him. Ryan and he have discussed this. Mikey takes one of the chairs. Frank invites himself into Mikey's lap, and Mikey's lap doesn't protest. Brendon reaches out and pulls Ryan to him gently by his wrists. He brings the wrists up to his mouth and laps along the ink, tracing it carefully with his tongue. Ryan watches.

Brendon draws up, pulls the two of them flush against each other and whispers in Ryan's ear, keeping his gaze on Frank and Mikey. "Know what they're seeing right now?"

Ryan makes a small sound in the back of his throat. Brendon takes it as a question. "They're seeing how long and graceful and perfect you are, and how that drives me past madness."

Ryan breathes wetly against the skin of Brendon's neck. Brendon pulls back to taste the moisture, sucking Ryan's bottom lip into his mouth, shifting them so that Mikey and Frank are seeing a profile. Ryan isn't the only one breathing loudly. Brendon kisses Ryan—he loves Ryan's mouth, the way words always roll off it wrongly, even if they're the right words. He kisses him and rocks into him. Ryan rocks back and says into the kiss, "You said you wanted— You said—"

"Do you? Do you want that?"

"Brendon—"

"It's important. It's part of this."

Ryan folds to his knees, and oh, Ryan can't much dance, but he can _move_ , which is all that matters. Ryan looks up, his lips wet, large. "Yes."

His fingers are delicate at Brendon's waist, like he's plucking out the beginning of a song. His mouth is anything but delicate. Ryan attacks with his lips, his tongue, his cheeks. Brendon glances over at Mikey and Frank. They are transfixed by Ryan: his beauty, his insouciance, his uniqueness. Brendon quite agrees. Ryan sucks him well past the point where he can hold on and Brendon lets go, crumbling to the floor the moment Ryan's hands allow. Brendon says, "Look at them."

Ryan looks and flushes. Brendon leans in to taste the heat. He murmurs, "Fuck me, Ry."

"Brend—"

"Fuck me," insistent this time. He wants to show Mikey and Frank, wants them to see where Brendon can go for Ryan, wants them to see what Ryan will do for Brendon, wants to see that himself. Wants it all to hurt just a little, because if not it would be too much, too perfect. Brendon needs it to be real.

Ryan puts him on his hands and knees facing Mikey and Frank. Brendon hears the popping of a lube cap, but then there's just Ryan, long and thin like everything else about him. Just what Brendon wants. Brendon gasps with the intensity of it, the overwhelming sensory nature of it. Ryan says, "You could touch each other. If you wanted to," his voice low and monotone, the way it is when he's unsure.

Mikey has his hands in Frank's pants before Ryan is even finished with the thought. Ryan changes the rhythm a little, makes it harder and Brendon moans, "Good, yes, _yes_."

Ryan says, "Mine." Brendon can't be sure, but he thinks he might be telling Frank and Mikey. He sounds slightly different than when he's just saying it to Brendon. Probably, because Mikey smiles, lazy and decadent and knowing, and keeps his hands on Frank. Frank whimpers.

Ryan pulls Brendon up to where they are both on their knees, both facing Frank and Mikey, Ryan's chest pressed to Brendon's back, his arm over Brendon's chest, hand at his throat. The other hand is flat against Brendon's stomach. Ryan _slams_ in, whispers, "Kid," fierce and caring, and comes. Brendon melts to the floor with him when he goes limp, the two of them landing in a messy, interconnected lump.

Frank says, "Holy fuck," sounding perfectly sated. Mikey agrees, "Mm."

Ryan touches his lips to Brendon's skin. Softly, Brendon says, "Yes."

 

 

*

Ryan watches as Mikey stands Frank on his feet, waiting to see if he'll actually stay upright. He does. There's a wet stain on the front of Mikey's pants and it shouldn't be sexy except that Mikey basically came from watching them, and so it sort of is. Mikey walks to where Ryan and Brendon lay, where Ryan still has Brendon in his grasp. Ryan tightens his hold. Brendon is silent at the increase in pressure.

Mikey lays his hand on Ryan's shoulder and Ryan jerks away instinctively. Mikey just puts his hand back and says, "Stop it, Ryan," softly, but with authority. Ryan breathes in Mikey's grip. He's trusted him enough to watch, to see Brendon. He can trust him with this. The moment he unfurls, Mikey takes his hand to sit him up, help him to his feet. Together, they pull Brendon up. Frank's already in the bathroom, running the shower. Mikey says, "Lemme clean him up first, okay?"

Ryan probably wouldn't have protested anyway, but something in Mikey's tone makes him nod without even thinking. When Mikey disappears into the bathroom, Brendon asks, "Wanna order room service?"

His tone is a close approximation of his normal, "I'm sexually-satisfied and now hungry" one, but there's something just a little off. Ryan strokes his fingers over the vertebrae in Brendon's neck. "Brendon?"

Brendon makes a soft noise at the touch. "You were just a little— I thought I might have pushed too hard."

"No. _No._ Sometimes I just—" Ryan doesn't actually know how to finish that sentence.

Luckily, Brendon knows the end of it without being told. "Okay. Okay. Because it was—"

"Hot as fuck?"

Brendon makes a noise that is possibly not entirely human. Ryan nods in agreement. Mikey and Frank emerge swaddled in towels. Brendon says, "We were going to order food, but you were too quick, so now you have to."

"Beware handing us that responsibility," Frank says.

Brendon rolls his eyes. "Whatever. You have to eat it, too." He saunters toward the bathroom. Ryan follows easily.

 

 

*

It's easy to get the water back to just the right temperature, Frank and Mikey having already warmed it up. Ryan just hands Brendon the shampoo bottle because Brendon loves that part, loves sudsing his fingers through Ryan's hair, the non-sexual intimacy of the act. Brendon grins at him and gets to work. Ryan says, "You really did miss your calling."

Brendon tells him, "Nobody's fault but yours."

"Oh, come on, Brent is at least a little bit to blame." And maybe Spencer, but invoking Spencer's name has risks, lest he find out, and Ryan's smart enough not to take those risks.

Brendon laughs. "Always someone else's fault, isn't it?"

Ryan wishes. He smiles, though, just before Brendon tilts his head back. Ryan washes himself while watching Brendon take care of his own hair. He contemplates seeing if he can get hard again, but Mikey and Frank are waiting with food and he thinks, _maybe later_. He gets out first and tosses Brendon a towel. Brendon cranes forward and laps gently at the water that has settled in the hollow along Ryan's collarbone. Ryan says, "Food, remember?"

Brendon grumbles something that sounds like, "not as tasty," but dries himself off and wraps the towel around his waist. Ryan tucks his own towel firmly in place. It's stupid, he's just had sex in front of and will probably change within sight of Mikey and Frank. He finds he can't loosen the tie. He lets it go. Baby steps. Brendon opens the door and the cooler air of the hotel room rushes into the bathroom, ushering them out.

 

 

*

_September 2008_

31 Spencer says, "Hey, come on, I wanna show you," and Ryan goes, because it's Spencer's party. Well, okay, Ryan goes because it's Spencer asking. Brendon follows, probably for the same reason. Spencer takes them up to one of the guest bedrooms on the second floor and says, "Your room."

Ryan knows that Spencer and Bob got this place because it had extra space to keep them all in, but there's a difference between having extra space that could be devoted to you and the idea of having a room waiting for you, even if other people sometimes stay in it. The room is done in a tasteful beige and green combination and the bed is a queen-sized with a sumptuous looking duvet atop it. There are two windows and a decently-sized closet and a bathroom that runs between it and the other guest room. Brendon says, "Sure, Spence, way to totally out-adult us."

The room they have for Spencer and Jon and anyone else they might care enough about to let crash at their place is mostly a repository of Ryan's books and Brendon's posters. Ryan says, "You and Bob have a house."

Spencer says, "Yeah, that seems to be what this party is about. Which I should probably be getting back to." He leaves them at the door to their room. Brendon steps over the threshold and takes Ryan with him. He says, "Shut the door."

Ryan shuts it. When he looks around, Brendon's sitting on the edge of the bed, looking small, swallowed by the cover. He doesn't hold his hands out, he just waits. Ryan doesn't make him wait long. He stands in the v of Brendon's legs, leans into him. Brendon asks, "How quiet can you be?"

Ryan seals his lips. Brendon smiles. "So sure? Even if I were to do this?" Brendon leans forward, opens Ryan's lips with his tongue, lavishes attention upon his mouth. Ryan keeps his noises to himself. Brendon whispers, "Spencer made us a home."

"We have one," Ryan whispers back.

"Different," Brendon says.

Ryan doesn't argue. Brendon slides off the bed, pushing Ryan back a little, only to flip him around, shove his jeans down, shove at him until he’s sitting on the bed. "Quiet," Brendon reminds him. Ryan bites his wrist as Brendon swallows him down, teeth sinking in to letters and ink. Brendon pets at Ryan's hip and Ryan thinks about how at first they couldn't do that, it was too much, too much at once. He wants to tell Brendon it's not enough. Enough that it's Brendon, not enough _of_ Brendon. He promised to be quiet.

Brendon takes his sweet time, drawing off when he knows Ryan is near, kissing at Ryan's thigh, whispering words Ryan can't hear but which he suspects have to do with this place, this place being theirs. Finally, finally he lets Ryan go where he wants to and when he's put Ryan back the way he found him, he looks at Ryan's wrist and says, "That wasn't how I meant."

"Didn't feel it," Ryan says.

"Not the point," Brendon tells him.

Ryan kisses him. "Next time. Right now, I have other things for my mouth to be doing."

Brendon makes him stay and give him kisses for a long time before he allows Ryan to do exactly what he wants with his mouth.


	4. 42

Bob says, "That was a pretty tight set you played there, man."

Spencer says, "Really?" He doesn't mean to. His stature, age, and the composition of his face give people enough ammunition against him without him letting them think there's room for more. But Spencer sometimes turns the shuffle on his iPod off just so he can listen to MCR’s most recent bootlegs straight through, hear Bob Bryar's constant but never predictable foundation to My Chem's music.

Bob doesn't act like he's been given an opening, he just nods and says, "You gotta stick around, or you wanna go get some coffee?"

Spencer doesn't even know what band is playing anymore, nor does he really care. "Coffee would be good."

They hit up a diner, and Spencer orders lemon meringue pie with his coffee and says, "It doesn't bother you, right? The eggs thing?"

Bob first steals Spencer's fork, then a piece of the pie. "Don't tell Gerard, yeah?"

Spencer smiles and takes his fork back. "Would he really care?"

"Probably not. I think he sneaks shit, too, honestly."

"I would miss eggs," Spencer says. He would. He's never met an egg he didn't like.

"I miss moo shoo chicken."

"That's—"

"Random, yeah, but there you have it."

The coffee is pretty good, not Folgers, at least, and steeped past black, the way Spencer likes it. If a person's going to mainline caffeine, he might as well taste it going down. Red Bull—and Spencer has no problem telling Ryan or Brendon this—is for pussies or desperate men. Spencer has been the latter a time or two. Bob asks, "You see our set?"

"Was there anybody who didn't?" Spencer asks, before he realizes that Bob was being genuine. He figures it out when Bob just tips his coffee cup up and doesn't say anything else. Spencer says, "Okay, that was probably me being a defensive asshole."

"No small audience for your set."

"No, we do okay. It can just be a little intimidating, and I'm still not sure why we're having coffee, so."

"Because I wanted to hear what you thought of our set."

"You might or might not be able to see how that doesn't really clear things up for me."

"Why'd you ask me if I meant what I'd said when I told you you’d played well? That's not the sort of thing I'd lie about."

Spencer appreciates that he doesn't say he doesn't lie, that he puts parameters on the claim. They all lie. "I just meant—"

"That you actually valued my opinion."

Spencer shrugs.

"Not that there aren't other drummers out there that I'd actually care to hear from, there are, but you seemed like the kind of guy who would say something I'd believe, so I asked you."

"I seemed like that kind of guy."

"You're very honest up there. With your body. With your drums. I thought maybe it translated."

It's not that people never notice Spencer, exactly, but they never notice the important things. He takes a slow sip of coffee. "It was a good set. I thought Way, uh, Gerard, seemed tired, which was affecting the rest of you. You usually play more with your body and there was conservation of movement. It was limiting your sound a bit."

Bob sighs. "Yeah, that was sort of what I thought."

"Unless there are things I don't know, it's probably nothing a little sleep won't fix."

Bob smiles at him, very, very slight irony in the expression.

"Yeah," Spencer admits, "so much time for that on these things, huh?"

"He's not much of a sleeper to begin with."

"I'm not surprised by that information."

"I don't think anyone is."

The bill comes even as the waitress pours them more coffee and says, "Take your time." Spencer grabs it and Bob goes for his wallet. Spencer says, "Nah, let me. Since I was sort of a jerk about it."

"Self-defensiveness isn't the worst trait in a guy," Bob says, but lets Spencer pick up the tab. He asks, "On me, next time?"

Spencer does not, does _not_ ask, "Really?"

 

 

*

Spencer finds Bob a couple of cities later. "You tranq Way while we were on the road?"

"I hid the coffee. And the dark chocolate. And the Full Throttle."

Spencer lives on a bus, just the same as Bob. "Where?"

"Hid may have been a euphemism for sold."

"You sold your band's caffeine stash?"

Bob shrugs. "Bowling for Soup was hard up."

Spencer laughs. "Holy fuck, you're _actually_ an evil genius."

"It balances out Gerard being the angelic one."

"Yeah, that's what I think of when I think of Gerard Way."

"He'd surprise you."

He wouldn't. Spencer knows that almost nothing is what it appears to be at first sight. "I found a Chinese place here that does moo shoo tofu."

"It's not the same," Bob tells him, a slightly mournful tone to his voice.

"Well, I can't help that you're a sad vegan."

"Does the place have vegetarian spare ribs?"

Spencer looks at him. "Oddly, I didn't think to check. We're in Vermont. Probably."

"Oh relax, you had yourself a date before you even mentioned finding me moo shoo."

"I sort of suspected you were easy."

Bob laughs. "Are we really in Vermont? I could have sworn Gerard said something about Burgettstown. Uh, Pennsylvania."

"Yeah, he greeted the wrong city."

"And nobody said anything?" Bob asks.

Spencer grins. "I'm not sure this audience knows where we are, either."

"Good point." Bob nods. "You know what this means?"

"That we play to a lot of really hardcore addicts?"

"That too, but I was referring to our current placement in Vermont."

"That you can get things made from tofu that really, really were never meant to be made from something that started as a soybean?” Spencer tries.

"That you have to steal into a Ben & Jerry's and get both of us ice cream."

"Jesus, why don't you just give up?"

"Because Ray expects me too, and I hate being predictable."

"You so owe me, Bryar."

"I look forward to seeing what you think is adequate payback."

Spencer hates himself for blushing, but he sort of likes that Bob looks.

 

 

*

Ryan brings Spencer a coffee one morning somewhere between one very flat midwestern state and one even flatter mid-northern state. He sips at his and doesn't look at Spencer and says, "Bob's cute."

Spencer says, "He's no Brendon, but we can't all be spritely pixies."

"He looks like the kind of guy who could hold you up while fucking you."

"I'm that kind of guy, Ryan. And you don't like that sort of thing." Spencer knows. They've never talked about, and Brendon's sure as hell never said anything, but Spencer's made a habit of listening for what Ryan can't say since their first day of kindergarten, when Ryan was a particularly scrawny kid, too shy to do anything at recess but hang out on the swings, looking forlornly at the ever popular soccer fields. Spencer had sat down on the swing next to him and asked, "Wanna play?"

Ryan had looked at him with an expression that was clearly suspicious of anybody who would willingly seek out his company in public, despite the fact that he and Spencer had met through their fathers at least twice before. Spencer was hard to run off even then. He'd said, "I could push you. It's more fun that way," and Ryan had let him. Spencer sometimes thinks they've been on that playground ever since.

Ryan says, "There are moments, and I will grant you the large absence of them, but there are, y'know, _times_ , when I look up and see outside my head and worry about you."

Spencer knows. For all that Ryan does get stuck in his own head, the times when he pulls out are so spectacular that Spencer knows he would have stayed around just for that. Even at his worst, Ryan is somehow, instinctively, a friend. "I'm good right now."

"It's just—" Ryan twists his head to look out the window and doesn't seem to know how to finish. Spencer waits. Ryan tries, "You really look up to him. And you kinda...you save that sort of thing for worthwhile ones, because you're good at that, I mean, with the obvious significant exception, but it's just scary, how you could get hurt and then I'd have to kill a member of My Chem and Gerard Way would probably come after us all with a pick-axe, and I'm pretty sure we could take him, but I don't know, it sort of depends on which members he brings as back up, because Toro's fucking frightening."

Spencer reaches across the table and takes Ryan's chin in one hand, forcing him to look at Spencer. "Say it."

Ryan closes his lips obstinately.

"Say it Ryan Ross before I fucking tickle you until you scream."

Ryan caves. He always does. Tickling scares the almighty fuck out of him. Spencer's not really sure what he's going to do if Ryan ever figures out he's bluffing. "I'm not worthless."

"All right. Now that we've cleared that up, let me remind you that I am, you know, a guy, and I'll totally get over Bob deciding I'm not his thing, when he does."

"Regardless, I'll probably still have to maim him, _if_ he does, which means it's endgame scenario anyway, because Way is smart, you know that fucker will go after Brendon's face, and I just can't allow that to happen."

"I think you might be looking forward to this with a little bit of malicious glee."

"There's just not enough bloodsport left in today's world."

"I almost hate to disappoint you."

"I could stand to be disappointed by you. This once. Or more. You deserve it, a little bit."

"Tragically for me, you don't deserve the disappointment."

Ryan shrugs.

"Don't make me—"

"I don't deserve the disappointment."

"There you go."

Ryan rolls his eyes. Looks away again. "I just— I just wanted to actually say it."

"You're a good friend, Ryan Ross."

"Please shut up, Spencer Smith."

"Nope, good friend."

"Fuck you and your fucking lack of issues."

"Why yes, Ryan, I do know that you consider me an awesome friend, too." Spencer sees the side of Ryan's reluctant smile. Without looking at him, Ryan reaches out his hand, and Spencer takes it. Ryan squeezes.

 

 

*

Objectively, Bob can admit that he probably should have asked, "Wait, how old are you?" before the kissing started. Way, way before the kissing. But it didn't seem all that pertinent when there was mostly just coffee and smack talking about other drummers and a little bit of innuendo. Or, okay, maybe pertinent, but not necessary. Once there's kissing, though, Spencer's ridiculously long tongue knowing all the right spots—and he can't be that young if he's this good, yeah?—then it seems pretty necessary. So, yes, "Wait, how old are you?"

"Eighteen," Spencer pants, "relax, all right?"

"That's pretty young," Bob says.

"Legal," Spencer stresses, arching back up toward Bob's mouth. He's too fucking good a kisser to argue with that, and so long as Bob isn't going to end up in jail, with Gerard— _Gerard_ —having to come and bail him out, well, he supposes he can handle the fact that he's lusting over an infant harder than he has ever lusted over anything before.

Spencer's hands find their way to Bob's pants and open them up easy. Yeah, he's done this before, so at least Bob's not fucking deflowering him, because, well, not that Bob _couldn't_ do slow and easy and sweet, he _was_ in high school at one time--if not for terribly long--but that's not really his scene. Luckily, it doesn't seem to be Spencer's either. Spencer's hands are drummer's hands—not-quite smooth, a little hard, imminently capable. When he folds one over Bob's cock, Bob might be unable to keep himself from saying, "Jesus, Smith, so fucking hot."

"Tell me about it," Spencer says, and the tone of his voice makes Bob realize he actually means, "tell me."

"Drummer's hands," Bob says, not really at his most eloquent. It must do it for Spencer though, because he squeezes a little, runs that unbelievable, irreverent tongue of his over Bob's lips. Bob does not, does not think about it on his cock, because if he does this will be all over, and he doesn't want to find out that an eighteen year old has more stamina than him.

Spencer slips his tongue back inside Bob's mouth just as he pulls his hand almost all the way off Bob's cock, the palm pressing to the head and then back down, back down until he's holding the base. He won't let Bob breathe, not deep, not regular, not with his mouth all over the place—how does anyone monopolize so much space with his lips? Honestly? Bob gives in, because Spencer clearly wants it, and that's almost as hot as Spencer himself.

For such a small thing, Spencer holds Bob up pretty adeptly as Bob floats on a sex-induced high. When he's come down sufficiently to meet up with Spencer, Spencer asks, "Gonna return the favor?"

Even if Spencer weren't the hottest thing ever to come across his field of vision, Bob really isn't the kind of asshole who would leave a guy hanging like that.

 

 

*

Spencer doesn't actually mean to lie. Not that he has ethical objections, he doesn't. But Spencer's never lied about his age before, not unless it was to get into clubs, and only then to see the bands, not to drink. The problem, as Spencer sees it, is that Bob is Bob Bryar of My Fucking Chemical Romance, and Spencer has been listening to their music since he was fourteen and he and Ryan would play covers in his room, driving all and sundry members of his family insane. He knows every damn song they've ever played and he knows how much better the band sounded the minute, the second, Bob Bryar came along and saved their asses.

Hero worship and really hot making out evidently induce an abnormal amount of dishonesty in Spencer. He's not proud of it. He's not exactly _not_ not proud of it, either. And when Bob has his hand around Spencer's cock, muttering things like, "Fucking hot little cocksucking lips," into Spencer's ear, well, it's just hard to have all that much shame. Even if he were the type to have shame in general, which he's really not.

Spencer says, "You'd like that," and then, after he's come, when he's feeling generous, he closes those lips, his teeth, over the lobe of Bob's right ear before almost-promising, "Maybe later."

Definitely later, really, assuming Bob so much as hints at the want, because Spencer has never wanted someone's dick in his mouth so bad in all his life. Bob hints. Or rather, Bob finds him watching The Academy Is... from behind their stage and says, "You really invested in this?"

Spencer isn't. What he _is_ is well stocked, having stolen Brendon's not so secret stash of Altoids just in case a situation just like this one should arise. He slips one in his mouth and slides his way almost gently up over Bob. Bob moans and fists Spencer's hair. He says, "You are such an unholy little fuck."

Spencer likes that, so it's pretty much the last coherent thought he plans to allow Bob for awhile. He keeps the Altoid carefully between his tongue and Bob's cock, enjoying its slow dissolution, the too-heavy mint mixed with a more natural saltiness, humanity. He works his tongue up and down, even around once the Altoid has melted to nothing more than a sliver. He isn't fancy about it. Blowjobs aren't something he has a ton of experience with, and mostly before it was guys who were just grateful someone would put his mouth anywhere near their cock, so he hasn't learned a lot of technique. That said, he has strong cheeks and not much of a gag reflex and above him, Bob is doing everything _but_ complaining. Also, Spencer swallows. _That_ he is proud of, because it took some effort to learn and when he looks up—he can't help it, he really can't, he knows it's sort of classless to need to see, but Spencer doesn't claim to be an arbiter of class—Bob has a look of utter savor and no small amount of awe on his face.

No sooner is he done than Bob pulls Spencer to his feet for more kissing. Bob is on his tongue, in his mouth and Spencer thinks, _don't come from this, you freaking seventeen-year-old child_. Spencer's pretty good about listening to himself.

 

 

*

Bob is a little hesitant to board the Panic bus. Ross has a way of watching a person that kind of reminds him of most of the serial killer films he's seen, and Urie can't seem to stop moving. Ever. Granted, neither can Frank, so Bob's pretty much used to that. Wilson seems chill, but then, Wilson's never around. It's pretty easy to be chill under those circumstances.

But Spencer says, "Ride with me for a bit?" and he hasn't asked yet, has been really overwhelmingly generous about riding with Bob, in fact. Also, Bob clearly sucks at saying no to Spencer. At all. Ever. He used to be really good at it. Maybe once he's away from Smith's vundun practicing ass he'll get better. Bob is totally an optimist.

They slide onto the bus that evening, Spencer admonishing Ross and Urie to, "Be good."

Ross follows them with his eyes all the way to the bunks. Bob determinedly does not tell Spencer that his best friend in the entire world is a creepy little fuck. Everyone has his quirks. Spencer sits on his bunk, toeing his shoes off. He asks, "Wanna take some of Brendon's ties and do whatever we so please?" in the same tone in which any normal person would ask Bob what he had for dinner. Bob loses every last drop of blood to his dick. It's only through sheer willpower that he stays conscious. He nods.

"Thought you'd say that," Spencer tells him, unearthing the items in question from the space between his bunk mattress and the wall. He holds them out. There are three of them.

Bob asks, "What do you want?"

Spencer says, "Be creative."

Bob ties a knot in the middle of one of the ties. He kisses Spencer lightly. "Open."

Spencer does and Bob slips the knotted part into his mouth, ties the tie off behind his head. Bob wants to feel the sound getting caught in Spencer. It's a tricky maneuver, but with the two left, Bob ties each of their wrists together, so that where one's hand goes, the other's must follow. He rolls onto his side, into the bunk, bringing Spencer with him, pulling Spencer atop him. He rolls again so that Spencer is on his side, and they are facing each other. Bob pulls one of Spencer's hands up to his mouth, so as to suck long and hard at the palm, to tongue the entirety of its surface. Spencer, sure enough, is making noises that can't escape. Bob uses his other hand to touch at Spencer's chest, Spencer also having to touch, to feel himself vibrate.

Bob moves the hand from his mouth down to the buttons on each of their pants. Spencer works to help him with this part, and it's a little bit odd, hard to manage, and so sexy Bob hopes he makes it to the part where they get their cocks out. He does. Just. Their cocks brush against each other and Bob uses his control over the placement of Spencer's hand to have Spencer's fingers meet Bob's, their hands both settling over their cocks, wrapping together like one large first. Spencer gasps silently, and Bob feels it all the way up his arm. Bob moves a little into their hands, which gives Spencer the idea that he can, an idea he takes advantage of. It's slightly slow going, the intimacy of it all making Bob want to wait, savor, but Spencer's pretty young, so they can only last so long. Not wanting to be scraping against a recently-orgasmed, oversensitized cock, Bob makes himself hurry just a bit. It's pretty easy when Spencer starts exploding inside his chest with sounds of pure, undiluted pleasure. Bob's pretty much done at that.

Afterward, Bob works their wrists free, undoes the gag and kisses Spencer, long and as though he has a point to make. Spencer says, "Possibly I should buy Brendon some new ties."

"You're a good friend," Bob tells him.

 

 

*

"I can take a lot from you, Smith, but you gotta stop standing like that, because next time you do it, neither hell nor high water's gonna keep me from grabbing you, tossing you on the nearest surface and saying 'fuck it' to the reputations of both our bands. And as you well know, that would probably cause an all out emo war, which is something that nobody, not even I, who sometimes takes delight in the folly and even misery of others, wishes to see."

"It's not that I'm denying the depth and import of your words, Bryar, but what the fuck are you talking about? Standing like what?"

Bob takes things into his own hands—literally—grabbing Spencer's hips, which are just slightly jutted, and says, "Oh yeah, because this isn't a fucking invitation."

It wasn't a moment ago, but Spencer grins, because screw it if it's not going to be now. "What does it make you want to do, huh?"

Bob hoists Spencer on the table.

Spencer says, "Um, don't you guys eat—"

"I'll soak it in bleach later," Bob says.

"Aren't they gonna ask—"

"Trust me, this band doesn't have any right to talk."

Spencer shrugs. "Yeah, okay."

Bob has Spencer's shoes and socks and pants off within seconds, which is sort of a skill that Spencer would like to acquire, but he figures it probably takes time and practice, and right now he's in the mood for neither.

"It makes me want to fuck you, Smith," and that's something they haven't done before, so there's a hint of eager questioning to the statement.

"Why are you still talking?" Spencer asks, pretty much rhetorically. He's sort of impressed by himself at this moment, because he is not the terminally calm Spencer that this response possibly portrays. He might, perhaps, be thinking _oh, finally, finally,_ and maybe some pretty uncool things about how Bob Bryar is totally going to be his first. But Spencer makes it sound good, and _that_ , he decides, is what matters.

Bob's mouth is on his, then, his tongue as strong as his arms, as the rest of him. Somewhere in the back of his mind Spencer hears a rip, the popping of a cap but he's far too interested in the press of Bob's lips against his to pay attention, and so it's kind of a nice surprise when there's a finger sliding into him, two, and then Spencer has to tell Bob to, "Get to it, holy fuck, do I look like a girl?"

"Sort of," Bob says, but he's lifting Spencer's hips slightly, sliding home as he says it, hitting every pertinent spot along the way, so Spencer's not going to argue, at least not until later. Right then he's sort of busy trying to breathe, trying to get used to this. The fingers, the fingers were totally familiar, but this is new and a little bit harder than he was expecting.

"Fuck, okay, yes, like that," Spencer tells him, his voice maybe breaking a tiny bit, after the third time Bob hits his prostate dead on. It's not that the pain has faded completely, just that it doesn't fucking matter because if Bob delivers any more pleasure, Spencer really might have a heart attack.

"Demanding. Little. Thing. Aren't. You?" Bob punctuates his words with thrusts.

"Big enough for you," Spencer tells him.

"Everything enough for me," Bob agrees as he wraps the hand that's not at Spencer's back, not providing some support, around Spencer's cock and gives a concerted tug. Spencer lets his head drop back, allows a sound that makes absolutely no sense to escape his throat.

"Oh yeah, Smith, oh yeah."

"Shut up and come," Spencer mouths. Bob either hears him, or is there already. It doesn't really matter which, not so long as Bob is pulling Spencer into him, onto him, not so long as he's licking his way from the hollow of Spencer's throat to his lower lip, not so long as everything feels so fucking good Spencer's pretty sure he'll never change his posture _ever_. Bob slips from him and lays him backward on the table. Spencer looks up, sated, self-satisfied.

Bob says, "So yeah, you gotta stop standing like that."

Spencer rolls his eyes. "Whatever. You gotta get better at figuring out incentives for me to _not_ do shit that drives you crazy."

Bob laughs. "You might have a point."

"I always do."

 

 

*

Bob doesn't know what causes Ray to get curious, anymore than he knows what takes him so long to get curious. But he does get curious sometime in the week after Warped ends, when Bob is a little bit lonely and a lot miserable and pretending to be neither. Bob knows something is up when Ray sprays water through his nose. Ray is a fairly composed kind of guy. Gerard smacks Ray's shoulder. "What, what, what, what—"

"Shut up," Mikey says.

"Seriously, Ray, share the funny," Frank says.

Bob really, really knows something is up when Ray hesitates. Gerard leans over Ray's shoulder to take a look at the screen of his Sidekick. "Oh sweet Mary mother of Jesus on a fucking popsicle stick."

Mikey reaches out to steal the Sidekick and Ray bats his hand away. "Hey! Gee can know, but I can't?"

"Bob," Gerard says.

"Yes, Gerard?"

"Um."

"You're sleeping with a seventeen year old?" Ray asks, seeming partly-disapproving, but also a little impressed.

"Spencer's eighteen," Bob says.

"Um," Gerard says again. "Unless I'm doing the math wrong, no. No, he's not."

Bob grabs the Sidekick and stares at the date on the Wikipedia page. September 2, 1987. He nearly drops the thing. "Did you—" But he doesn't bother to ask, just gets to checking himself. All the other pages say the same thing.

"He lied about his age?" Frank asks, looking like he doesn't really think that sort of thing is cool. Bob can't exactly disagree. He hands Ray back his Sidekick. Ray says, "Look, man," but Bob waves a hand, disappearing into the back of the bus. He climbs into his bunk where his own Sidekick is, and presses "talk," since Spencer was the last person he called.

Spencer answers, "Miss me already?" It's only been a couple of hours.

"Seventeen, Spencer James Smith."

Spencer is utterly, eerily silent.

"Say something," Bob says.

Slowly, Spencer asks, "Is there anything I could say that would make you less pissed off at this moment?"

Bob considers the question, because the worst part of it is, he doesn't _want_ to be pissed off. "Why? Why the hell would you do that to me?"

"I didn't— Look. You're Bob Bryar, all right? My Chemical Romance. _My Chemical Romance_. And you said my drumming was honest and you just sat there looking fucking hot and then there was kissing and it wasn't like I set out to lie, I just wanted you. I wanted you so fucking badly that it seemed something that small, a matter of months, it seemed like a stupid thing to let get in the way."

"A matter of months? Spencer, you're _seventeen_ fucking years old!"

"Look, I don't mind you telling me you never want to talk to me again and that I'm a jerk and whatever else you want to say, but could you maybe not yell? This is turning out to be a pretty miserable conversation for me without that added bonus." Spencer's voice wavers over the first sentence, and Bob knows he minds. He minds a lot.

"What am I supposed to do here, Spencer? Just say, 'oh, that's fine that you completely fucking lied to me' and go on screwing your illegal little ass whenever the opportunity arises?"

Spencer is silent again, his breaths nothing but long, shaky tunnels of sound between them. When he speaks again, all he says is, "I'm sorry."

Bob knows what he should do is say something unforgivable, call Spencer a "lying little cunt," say, or tell him to fuck off, or something. Instead he sighs and hits the end button. "Fuck," he tells his empty bunk. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

 

 

*

Spencer isn't going to mope, he isn't going to. His mom always told him that a lie will come back to you and while Spencer has found that many a times it doesn't, evidently the important ones do. So this is what he deserves and he's not going to be some sort of crybaby about it. He's seventeen and in a band. There'll be other hot drummers who want to make out with him. And other stuff.

He lets it all go into the sets, drumming with a manic fervor that leaves Ryan's eyes wide sometimes. He sleeps a lot, too, but sometimes a guy just has to sleep. He wakes up to Ryan being in the bunk with him one morning and says, "Um. Hi."

Ryan says, "You're sad."

"I'll get over it."

Ryan narrows his eyes a bit. "Mm."

"Mm? Speak in full sentences, Ryan Ross." And okay, maybe he should stop snapping at his bandmates, who aren't the ones who fucked up. Ryan allows him his snit, though, and not that he doesn't deserve that from Ryan, but it makes Spencer feel a little special, soothes his nerves in a way nothing has managed since Bob called. Ryan says, "Brendon and I— We think you should email him."

"And say what, exactly? I've already said what there is to say."

"He's had some time, though. And it's not as if you lied to hurt him. You lied because in your head you're not seventeen."

That's not why Spencer lied, and he knows it, but Ryan's argument does make sense. "I still lied. I think that's the central issue for him. It's an inauspicious way to start a relationship, you have to admit."

"I started mine with migraines."

"I'm not really sure that's an endorsement of anything, Ry."

"We're good for each other," Ryan says. The frustrating part is, Spencer knows. Even when Brendon and Ryan aren't good for each other, they still somehow are.

"Yeah, well, that's you and Brendon."

Ryan makes a sound of frustration. "How long have I known you?"

"Thirteen years."

"In all that time, I've never seen you react to someone the way you did to him. So you fucked up. Welcome to being human, Spence, it's about fucking time. Jesus."

"He won't read it."

"I think he will. Why would he be upset if he didn't care?"

"He's already over it."

"Why are you being such a coward?"

"I'm not."

"You totally are. It's an email. What's the worst he could do?"

"Respond with all the stuff he didn't say to me on the phone. It's harder when you have to actually see or hear the person's reaction."

"All right, but then you read a few lines and delete. And you have closure."

"I have closure now. He hung up on me."

"But he didn't say those things, you just said. He didn't say them."

"Why are you choosing now to be an optimist? It's really annoying."

Ryan presses his forehead to Spencer's. "Because you need someone to."

He doesn't often, but in this case, he sort of does. "If I send the email, will you get off my ass?"

"You shall have your buttocks entirely to yourself once again."

"Fine," Spencer says. He doesn't get up to move. "I'm just gonna stay here, a bit. Before doing that."

Against him, Ryan nods, and stays too.

 

 

*

Bob means to delete the email without reading it, only Mikey sees it from the corner of his eye and says, "I thought you told him—"

"I did."

"Then—"

Bob cuts Mikey off. "He doesn't understand the meaning of the word no." His thumb goes for the button that will delete the message but Mikey catches his hand.

"Don't. Not without reading it."

"He _lied_ to me, Mikey. About his fucking _age_."

"I know. I know. But that's not what has you slowing down all of our songs, okay? I mean, let's be honest, here."

Bob says, "Sorry about the songs."

"That should be the worst of our problems," Mikey says, somewhat fervently.

"The rest of it doesn't matter, Mikey."

"Yeah," Mikey says. "Yeah, that's kind of utter bullshit, Robert."

"Is there any possibility of you fucking off about this?"

"That depends on whether if I fuck off, the next camera guy you come into contact with is going to have a broken nose, because you've been a little aggressive lately, and I know all your normal targets."

Bob runs a hand over his face. "I swear, I won't do anything to fuck the band up." My Chem has enough problems without Bob adding that to the list. Or sleeping with minors.

"Not that I'm not worried about the band, but I'm going to take this moment to be pretty worried about you instead. You're fucking sad, Bob."

"I'll get over it."

"But he emailed you and maybe you should—"

"He's already said everything he could possibly have to say."

"Except that maybe he hasn't," Mikey says quietly. "If I'd only been willing to listen to Gerard apologize once? Man—“

"Gerard's your brother."

"And this kid's something. Maybe not everything, not yet, but something. You've been utterly silent for weeks. You're a quiet guy, but I know the difference, okay?"

"If you wanted me to participate in conversations, you could have just said."

"I want you to have something that you want to bother saying."

Bob makes a fist of his hand, squeezes tightly enough to hurt. "I'll open that email, and he'll still be seventeen."

"Societal expectations aren't always right, Bob."

" _Seventeen_."

"But that wasn't what you saw when you looked at him. That wasn't what you heard when he talked or played or laughed."

It really wasn't, which is the total killer in all of this. Mikey reaches over his shoulder and presses the button to open the email. He reads it aloud, which is good, because Bob can't seem to get his eyes to focus.

_Bob. Ryan says that I should try this, even though I don't think you'll read it, but as it turns out, I can't not try, so here is me trying. I can't not have lied at this point. I don't exactly wish I hadn't, because I think you would have walked away, and I get that, because you have a moral code and all, but I don't really care about all of that. What I care about is that every time I close my fucking eyes I feel your hands on my back, I hear the way you laugh when you're actually amused as opposed to just humoring someone. And maybe it's just me being stupid and seventeen, but it's so utterly fucking real that I don't know how to get past it, to go on with being me and not have that be part of me. I guess that could be one-sided, I guess it could, but I'm really hoping it's not._

_Please. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry that I wish there was another way to say it, another way to show it, but there's not. All I can do is repeat those words until they don't mean anything. I'm sorry. I miss you._

Mikey inhales steeply upon finishing. "Bob."

"Please stop talking."

"Bob, he's—"

"No, he's not. He's seventeen. We're all completely in love at seventeen."

"Not like that," Mikey says. "I remember. Not like that."

Bob buries his hands in his face. He doesn't delete the email.

 

 

*

Spencer's phone goes off during Panic's soundcheck. Brent is missing, and they're all stressed and Brendon asks, "Are you fucking serious with this, Spencer?"

Only Spencer doesn't have his phone. He left it on the bus. Ryan pulls it out of his pocket and looks at the number. "He has to take this."

"Ryan, can the three of us, at least, pretend like we're a band for— Evidently not," Brendon finishes as Ryan hands Spencer the phone. Spencer looks at the number and fumbles with it so badly it takes him three tries just to press "talk." He hates, _hates_ the way his, "Hello," is chock-full of hope and the expectation that he's about to get yelled at again.

"If you ever lie to me again, I will sell every single last one of Ross' secrets to the press, rip Urie's vocal chords from his throat and _then_ kill you. Slowly. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Do you believe me?"

"No."

"Smith."

"Brendon and Ryan are innocent bystanders, and despite your affinity for death metal and other things that are bad for one's health, you're kinda noble."

"Jesus, stop being seventeen."

"Not for another few weeks."

"I _will_ lose your number and change mine and get a new email address and never, ever let you back into my life. Do you believe that?"

"Yes."

"Please, please don't do it."

"No. I swear. I fucking swear."

"Okay."

Spencer looks over at Brendon, who is attempting to do cartwheels in between the equipment. He makes a, "what the fuck?" face at Ryan, who's really supposed to be watching over him, but he gets that it was probably easier to just let him do whatever would get all the nervous energy out. "I'm, uh. I'm sort of in the middle of a soundcheck, but—"

Bob laughs. "Jesus, call me back, Smith."

Spencer cannot help the smile that takes over his face. It is painful in its intensity and completely inexcusable in its effusiveness and he is powerless to stop it. "Later, Bryar." He snaps the phone shut.

"All better now?" Brendon asks sharply, but he's still keyed over the fact that they're missing their bassist and there's absolute genuine concern lying in his eyes when they make contact with Spencer's.

Spencer says, "He's talking to me."

Ryan makes the victory sign with his fingers. Spencer rolls his eyes. "I would say it's a good thing you're not our frontman, but he's just not any cooler." So Spencer is in a band of losers, some of whom can't be bothered to show up to work, but for the moment it's good, everything is.

 

 

*

"I realize that I am, effectively, placing my head in the lion's mouth, here, but Spencer's birthday is in two weeks, and I could use some help thinking up a gift."

Ray nods solemnly. Too solemnly. "Eighteen is a big birthday."

"Does he have a razor yet?" Frank asks. "I considered mine a rite of passage."

"Or you could go with the classic pony," Gerard throws out.

"Could any of you be adults about this for, oh, I don't know, the two minutes I'm asking of you here?"

Mikey looks at the other guys. "Seems pretty doubtful, doesn't it?"

"Doesn't he have a shoe fetish? You could get him shoes," Frank says.

"I don't think it's a fetish," Bob says.

Mikey asks, "You don't _think_?"

Bob shrugs. "We rarely slow down enough to get to taking our shoes off. But that could just be his way of getting what he wants. He's cunning."

Gerard makes a sound suspiciously close to a snort, but that's just fine, because other than the one obvious exception, Bob likes it when Spencer's a clever bastard. "And I bet everyone gets him shoes."

"Maybe you should ask _his_ bandmates," Ray says without looking up from the magazine he's become immersed in.

Bob tilts his head. "That's not the worst idea you've ever come up with."

"I'm flattered, twat-face."

"Ray, seriously, I don't like that term," Gerard says.

"I know, that's what makes it funny."

Bob hides his smile. Gerard really, really should have learned by now that giving Ray the rise he's looking for is not the way to deal with him. At all. "Mikey, is there any chance that if you spoke to Pete he could give you Ross' number and then actually be discreet about it?"

Mikey doesn't look hopeful. Still, he says, "I'll see what I can do."

"I don't want him to know, Mikey."

Mikey nods. "Birthday present, I know. I said I'll try."

After Spencer has been given said present, Bob is totally bitching him out for making him have to depend on Pete Wentz's— _Pete fucking Wentz's_ —ability to keep his mouth shut. Spencer will probably laugh at him.

 

 

*

At twelve midnight on September 2nd, Bob emails two playlists to Spencer. One is entitled "songs about me," the other, "songs you would like." The email subject is "Happy Birthday." The body is blank. At four minutes past midnight, he receives a response. " _Songs about me?_ What kind of a birthday present is that?"

That playlist reads like a history book, The History of Bob Bryar. Among others, there is a song from his first concert, the song that was playing the first time he had sex, the song that made him want to play drums, the song that got him through the worst of his high school depression. He plans to tell Spencer all of this later, when he's listened, just listened, at least once. He responds, "I could take it back."

"Too late," Spencer tells him, and Bob smiles, because he knows Spencer's already begun listening by now. "Should I open the package?"

To be honest, despite having written, "Do not, under any circumstances, open this until the 2nd, you little shit," Bob really expected Spencer to have completely ignored him, as he often does. Bob asks, "Do you want to?"

"Not yet."

"It's your birthday."

"I'll call you. Tomorrow."

Bob goes to sleep. It will make tomorrow come sooner. Spencer calls him at ten and asks, "How did you get this?"

"Frank met him at a party last year and the two of them talked until four in the morning. It's good, knowing people who randomly hit it off with just about everybody they meet."

"We really should have someone like that in our band," Spencer agrees. "Brendon's so close, but then he gets kind of annoying."

Bob can already tell when Spencer's talking about nothing because he doesn't know what to say. "Does this make up for the song list?"

"Ben Fong-Torres," Spencer says.

Bob grins. His boyfriend is exactly the right kind of geek. "Thought that might interest you."

"Ben Fong-Torres," Spencer repeats, evidently on the off-chance Bob didn't understand the first time. Bob progresses to laughing.

"I can't believe you had him sign the entire collection. To me. It says Spencer."

Bob is still laughing but it occurs to him that Spencer is actually kind of overwhelmed, because he isn't normally this expressive. "The gift was for you, Spence. Not anybody else."

"Cause I was kind of a jerk about your playlists and they were really good and actually, I liked that you sent me something about you, I just. Say things I don't mean. Sometimes."

"It's part of your charm."

"Thank you," Spencer says. Bob's pretty sure he's still talking about the gift.

"Happy birthday."

"I'm legal."

"Yeah, it's a big day for me, too."

Spencer laughs.

 

 

*

When Bob answers the phone he's laughing. Normally Spencer would say, "Gonna include me, asshole?" or something equally sweet, but today he just says, "I'll call back."

"Whoa, hey, Spence, no."

"Nah, you were...doing your thing."

"My thing can be done some other time. What's going on?"

Spencer is silent for a while. Bob says, "Okay. Here's— I get the protective thing, Spence, I do. But I'm not gonna use the information against you, right? I mean, you trust that?"

"Yes," Spencer says, and there's no hesitation, which is heartening.

"And if I used information against them, it would be exactly like using it against you, right?"

"Pretty much, yeah." Spencer pauses. "I'm trying. I'm trying to tell."

"I've got a while." They've got a show that evening, but Bob will damned well stay on until then if he has to, and call back afterward.

"Brent didn't show up again today. For the show." The words come out quick, almost jumbled.

Fuck. "That's what? The fourth?"

"Yeah. Four shows we've had to cover in a month and a half. Brendon looks like he's been hit by a bus. Ryan's just better at pretending."

Gerard probably would look pretty rough too if he started having to multi-task during shows, and Gerard has a good nine or so years on Ross and Urie, four or so of them being in experience.

"So the thing is, I know what we've gotta do. I mean, it's pretty obvious."

"Obvious doesn't always mean easy," Bob points out, and yeah, that's obvious too, but sometimes the speaking of it is necessary.

"The first day of high school, Brent got his ass kicked right alongside me when I mouthed off to some of the seniors. He just stayed, you know? Because he's not good at seeing injustice go down. He was always— Ryan always had to stop him from—" Spencer cuts off. There is nothing to say. Bob could tell him that nobody grows into the person they were, that this doesn't make Spencer the bad friend, that Brent has more than betrayed any leftover goodwill he had accumulated. He could tell him that he owes it to his band to find someone else—and they will, My Chem found him, Panic will find a bassist, even if Bob has to rouse every member of My Chem to hit the streets and _look_. He could tell Spencer that this is the part of adulthood nobody mentions.

What he says is, "I'm sorry, Spence." What he asks is, "Is there anything I can do?"

"Tell me what you were laughing at."

"Kind of a long story."

"There's nowhere I really wanna go right now."

 

 

*

Spencer tries to get himself to call Bob four times before he just gives up, sends him an email with the subject title, "I Miss You," and no body. Bob calls within the hour. If it meant anything, Spencer would tell him that he loves him. If it wouldn't make him sound like some starry-eyed eighteen year old, he would tell him. If it had been more than a year, he would tell him. Because he does. Mitigating factors aside. Bob asks, "You tell him?"

Spencer keeps his eyes open, because if he closes them the world will reduce itself to that phone conversation—he should have done it face to face, he should have, he's never shied away from confrontation, never, but then he would have had to _see_ Brent's face, oh he should have, should have—with Ryan and Brendon silent behind him, sentinel-like. "Yes."

"It's over, Spence. The worst part is over."

No, no it isn't, because Ryan hasn't taken a breath since Brent called them hypocritical cocksuckers.

"Can you tell me any part of what you're thinking?"

"It would be nice if you were here. I would sort of like to suck your cock right now." Because that isn't dirty. Or, if it is, it is in a good way. Not the way Brent made it sound. And Brent isn't like that, isn't hateful— Wasn't, maybe. Anger makes people say awful things. So does hurt. Spencer keeps all his awful words carefully inside.

"I wouldn't turn that action down. Although I'd probably like a little turnabout. You have hot parts, Spencer Smith."

"Are we going to have phone sex?"

"Do you want to?"

In his head? Yes. Spencer's cock isn't cooperating. "Maybe not."

"Some other time." Bob doesn't sound disappointed.

"We're having Jon Walker come on. Academy's guitar tech."

"How's he do with the other two?"

"He's good. He doesn't poke where he shouldn't." He doesn't poke _Ryan_ , really. Spencer suspects there's a little more than friendly interest going on in Brendon's direction, but Brendon isn't the one Spencer has to worry about, not in that context.

"Think he'll work out in the long run?"

"Can't really, um—"

"Okay, sure, one day at a time."

"Yeah," Spencer says.

"Hey, Spence. You gotta know. If you called me, I wouldn't think it was just you being young."

Spencer does squeeze his eyes shut then, because that's not the whole of it, it's not, Spencer is bad at being someone else's burden, but it's a part of it, a significant part. He can lose Bob for a million reasons—he doesn't _want_ to, but he _can_ —but the stupidity of youth isn't one of them. It just isn't on the list. "I'll try harder."

"The email was okay, too. I just didn't want you thinking...that."

"You're a really good boyfriend," Spencer tells him, and feels slow, special in a bad way, because it's not exactly what he means.

"You make it easy."

Spencer knows for a fact that he doesn't.

 

 

*

Bob works in a twenty-four hour flight-included trip to get to Spencer. Mikey helps him. Frank and Gerard are still reserving judgment on this person Bob is most definitely in love with, even if he hasn't figured out how to tell Spencer that. Spencer can be hard to reach. Bob suspects Ross has instilled a fair amount of wariness in Spencer. Not that wariness is bad. And Bob has already hurt Spencer once, no matter how justified.

Ray packs his bag for him. Bob double checks it, but Ray never forgets anything. It's uncanny. He meets up with Spencer backstage because he's literally staying for the show, riding overnight with them, and flying out again. Spencer kisses him hard and long and messy enough that the makeup people are going to be pissy with him for screwing up their work. Bob just kisses him some more, caressing his thumb over the skin of Spencer's neck. At some point he asks, "How are you?"

"We sound different," Spencer tells him, but doesn't sound displeased.

"Good different?"

After a moment, Spencer nods. The motion is quick, a little bit pained.

"I want to hear."

Spencer leans in, rests his head against Bob's chest. "Yeah. I'm glad you're here. I was gonna—"

"Don't," Bob says. "I can get to you." Panic isn't broke, but Bob knows it's easier for him to afford the ticket than Spencer.

"That's not really fair."

"For me or for you?"

"You."

"Then I get to be the one who worries about feeling wronged, right?"

"You know what I hate?"

"What?"

"When you get logical. It's deeply unattractive."

"Good thing you're the pretty boy in this relationship."

Spencer laughs. He says, "I have to go get yelled at by makeup now and then play a couple of songs on the drums for some people or else I would totally get on my hands and knees and show you pretty."

"I'll take a rain check."

"It won't take that long."

"I'd wait," Bob says, like that means something. Spencer smiles the way Bob suspects he hasn't since he made the decision about Brent, so maybe it actually does.

 

 

*

Spencer makes Ryan take a blood oath to keep Brendon away from the common area for a solid three hours. Literally. There's a safety pin and actual blood involved, because Ryan and Spencer have known each other since they were five and there are some habits that just can't be broken. It's not a lot of blood. Spencer needs that for later. He just hands Jon his own iPod, points him in the direction of the playlist labeled "Jon" and says, "Do me a favor and listen all the way through."

Jon laughs at him, which, okay, he probably deserves. It's a quality playlist. Jon will love it. Once the area has been secured, Spencer tells Bob, "I had an idea."

"You're good at those," Bob says.

"Um." Spencer shifts on his feet.

Bob frowns. "You're hard to embarrass, normally."

Spencer's a little bit impressed that Bob has read him correctly. Most people read that motion as annoyance or simple aloofness.

"Why don't you skip the telling me part?"

"Huh?"

"Just. I'll figure it out as we go along, I promise. I'm smart like that." Bob is smart in a lot of ways. Spencer kisses him as a reward for being all smart like that. Then he kisses him because Bob knows how to kiss, knows how to find all the parts of Spencer's mouth that not even Spencer remembers are there, knows how to open them up, enliven the nerves.

They find their way—tumble, really—to the couch and there's this part where they twist and turn and try and get out of their clothes without interrupting the kissing, only it doesn't work and finally they have to give up and just undress. Spencer is laughing and Bob is too and then Spencer has, _has_ to kiss him some more, because he's _laughing_ and if that isn't a nice change, Spencer really doesn't know what is.

But finally, finally it's just them, just skin and laughter and mouths, and Spencer palms Bob's cock. It's been too long and Spencer wants too much all at once, wants to wrap his hand around the cock and hold it, hold it until Bob begs for something else, wants to slide himself atop the cock, wants to swallow it, wants everything. Instead he says, "I got. I got these extra sticks." They are small, a 12 mm set, considerably shorter than the ones Spencer uses for actual drumming purposes.

"Hunh," Bob says in between kisses. Spencer thinks it's a question. Luckily he put the drumsticks, the extra set, on the arm of the couch, because the couch is central and that seemed like good planning.

"This is sort of—" _sick? fucked up? odd? just plain kinky?_ "—we don't have to—"

Bob takes the sticks from his hand. "You're pretty much the hottest little boy on the planet."

"Way to freak me out."

"You love it," Bob says and manhandles Spencer so that he's bent over the side of the couch, maybe arched a little away from it, just because Bob loves the long, damp line of Spencer's back during sex, during a show. And Spencer likes the way Bob watches him.

Bob slides one of the sticks in him, the smooth wood made even smoother with lube, and Bob says, "Jesus fuck, Spence," and Spencer doesn't feel as stupid about wanting them inside him, wanting the drums to be with them even now. Not that they weren't already, not that Spencer doesn't think in rhythm, that Bob doesn't breathe in it, that Spencer can't _hear_ that. But this is tangible. Spencer loves the tangible.

Bob adds the second stick and scissors them, _plays_ Spencer. Spencer responds as eagerly as Bob's drums, maybe more so and that's something, that's _something_ , because Spencer has seen the way those drums sit up and fucking beg for Bob, like a well-trained mutt. Spencer feels no shame at his shamelessness. He can't. Not with Bob whispering, "So utterly fucking sinful, Spence."

Spencer pants, "Can you? With?" and is thankful that Bob gets it, because he doesn't have it in him to be any more coherent.

The press of Bob's dick joining the sticks is intense, a little bit too much at first, but then Spencer takes a breath, and it's almost not enough. Bob presses in further and, "Yes, yes, please, yes, like that, like that."

Bob asks, "Want me to touch you, huh? Want me to?" It's the stupidest question in the world. It nearly brings Spencer over the edge without the proffered touch.

"Touch. Me," Spencer orders, like he might sound regal or something other than desperate. Bob doesn't mock him. He wraps his hand tight around Spencer's dick and says, "Just like that," when it only takes two quick pulls to send Spencer fucking flying. Bob doesn't take that long to follow. Afterward, Bob says, "Next time, tell me."

"Yeah?" Spencer asks, too languid to feel any trace of embarrassment or worry.

"The idea of those words coming out of your mouth would turn me on past the point of endurance if I hadn't just come. It makes me _want_ to be hard again as it is."

Spencer laughs a little. "Tell and show it is."

Bob rolls over onto Spencer. "Wanna kiss some more?"

Spencer's all for that idea.

 

 

*

Spencer would have to be both stupid and oblivious not to know Mikey's been depressed, and since he's neither, he's pretty up on that score. Which is probably what causes him to say, "Um, hi..." rather than, "Hey, nice surprise," when Bob shows up at their hotel in Oregon. Bob has their touring schedule, so it's not really a question as to how he found Spencer, just as to why the hell he would leave his band at a time like this. That's really not his style. Spencer stands back so that he can come in and Bob does, but then just stands there as Spencer closes the door.

"Bob," Spencer says.

"Mikey left."

The sound of water, of air, at the elements at their most destructive rush through Spencer's mind. He asks quietly, evenly, "What do you mean, left?"

"He went to go live with Stace for a while. To see if he could, y'know, get better."

"For a while. Does that mean he's coming back?"

"He said he didn't know. He was— He threw a glass at Gerard and Frank. A glass. It broke."

Spencer assumes that since Bob hasn't yet mentioned them until just now, they're okay, but, "Are they all right?"

Bob nods slowly. "Some stitches. Probably scars."

Probably, Spencer thinks. Softly he says, "Works with your image."

Bob is still standing where he stopped at coming in the door and for the first time ever, Spencer's not sure what touching him will do, if it will heal or if Bob will shatter like this glass Spencer has a hard time seeing, even in his head. Mikey's never so much as squeezed Spencer too tightly; he's the kind of guy who knows how limits work. Bob says, "I didn't even see it coming. I went and held him down after when he was already sick and aware."

Spencer steps in front of him so that if Bob doesn't want to look at him he has to forcibly move his gaze. He does. Spencer says, "Ryan always thinks he should have seen the abuse coming, too. But that was his dad, and this was Mikey."

"What if he doesn't?" Bob asks. "What if he doesn't come back?"

There's no answer to that, Spencer knows, because he had to remove Brent from his band, had to make the fucking choice, had to take responsibility for possibly watching things unravel at his own hands and he still thinks that might have been better than watching Ryan or Brendon walk away. No, he knows. Spencer takes a chance, presses his hands to Bob's chest. Bob's face is dry but his chest is shaking and Spencer realizes that he is, in his own way, sobbing. Spencer says, "He'll come back," and kisses Bob.

Bob takes to the kiss. They're both off balance in their own heads and it is a messy, lopsided endeavor. Spencer fists his hands in Bob's shirt even as he drops to the floor, uses his teeth to rip back the flap of Bob's jeans. He has to let go with one hand just long enough to get Bob out, but then he replaces it, careful that his knuckles rest against Bob's chest, a place for Bob to lean into. For all his haste in getting there, he sucks leisurely at Bob's cock, letting Bob take his time. There is nothing fancy about his technique. Bob doesn't need him to show off.

Spencer pulls off at the last moment, stays still under the spray of come, his eyes closed. He hasn't done that before, had planned on waiting until he could look up at Bob with eager, ready eyes. In this moment it is not about the pornographic allusions so much as a ritual of marking, of allowing Bob to claim him, a way of saying, I-am-not-going-anywhere without having to use words, which sometimes—most of the time—come out sharper and differently than Spencer intends. Bob wraps his hands over Spencer's, his chest slowly stilling. Spencer says, "He'll come back."

"I don't know."

But Spencer, who has been Ryan's friend long enough to know all about unhappy endings, does.

 

 

*

Ryan hands Spencer a piece of paper and says, "You're not allowed to argue."

Spencer looks down. It's an itinerary. Tucson to LA and then onto Seattle.

"I know it means you don't get any downtime between the shows, but Brendon and I thought this would be better. For your head."

Spencer thinks of the way Bob sounded the last time they spoke on the phone. Off-beat. Like he couldn't find the count. "Thanks."

Ryan asks, softly, "It's not like Brent, is it?"

Spencer shakes his head. "It's like if Brendon just decided he couldn't do this."

Ryan pales a little at that. Spencer nods. When he gets to the back of the bus, Brendon is standing there with a bag. He says, "I packed extra underwear and socks. Just, I don't know, in case. My mom always said that was a good thing to do." It explains why Brendon is forever losing undergarments, if there's always extra. The gesture is appreciated.

Spencer arrives in LA at eight in the morning and pays for a cab to the studio, since he doesn't actually know where Bob's new place is, the one he moved into after Mikey moved out of their rented haunted house hotel thing. He falls asleep in the lobby, which he can tell freaks the security guy out, but he must look like he at least showers regularly, since he's not kicked to the curb. He awakes to being shaken, not hard, just enough. Bob asks, "You get lost?"

Spencer yawns, tries to remember. "My band thought that it was important I come see you."

"Come on." Bob pulls him up and leads him to the group's recording rooms. "Coffee?"

"Orange juice?" Spencer asks with a sort of faint hope.

"Yeah, there's a vending machine in the hall. Here." Bob hands him some cash.

Spencer returns with two orange juices, just in case he can tempt Bob to drink something with actual nutritional value. Toro's arrived by that time. He smiles in Spencer's direction. "Good morning."

Spencer nods. He doesn't think it is, really, but little white lies never hurt anybody who's life was falling apart around him. Bob takes the orange juice in the spirit that it is offered, guzzles it. Spencer sits back and watches as Iero slinks in, too skinny by half and clearly not sleeping as much as he should. Watches Way try his hardest to be band leader instead of brother. Watches as screaming fights erupt between Way and Iero, and, surprisingly, Toro and Way. Even Iero seems to have the sense to stay out of that. Bob seems small behind his drums. At the end of the day—or at least, when they call it quits in the early afternoon—Spencer pulls Bob out of the kit. He says, "Gimme your keys."

Bob just hands them over. Spencer makes Bob tell him how to get back to his apartment, but nothing much else. Once inside he bends down and takes Bob's shoes off, places them neatly in the closet. Bob likes things orderly, and Spencer's not going to be the one to take that from him just now. He puts his own shoes by the door and herds them both into Bob's bed, curling into Bob's chest, tucking his head under Bob's chin.

Bob says, "You came aways. Wanna—"

"Later," Spencer tells him. Bob doesn't argue.

 

 

*

When Spencer wakes up, he can feel Bob awake underneath him, unmoving. They are both where they were when Spencer put them there. Spencer presses a kiss to the center of Bob's chest, the Clandestine t-shirt that looks like it was made for someone Mikey's size. It could have been. Spencer would totally wear Brendon's clothes if he had to walk away. Or Ryan's. Definitely Ryan's. "C'mon," Spencer murmurs.

"Where are we going?"

Despite the fact that Spencer—who is a natural source of heat—is lying nearly atop Bob under the covers, Bob's skin is prickled, and there are chills running through his arms. Spencer takes his hand and leads him to the bathroom, where he turns the shower water to a temperature just short of scalding. He undresses both of them, throwing Bob's clothes into the hamper, setting his aside to be put back in his bag. Then he puts Bob under the stream, following right behind. Bob asks, while the water is running, and maybe he thinks he can't be heard, or maybe he is simply comforted by the mostly-obscuring noise of the falling streams, "What if this ends?"

Spencer says, "Not gonna. You're all fighting too hard to hold on."

"We're all fighting."

"Part of the process," Spencer, who is also in a band, assures him. He lathers his hands and cleans every inch of Bob, kneading his thumbs into the tight curve of Bob's neck and shoulders, using his whole palm to release the drummer's strain in his biceps and stomach. He rinses him, every inch and then pushes him backward a bit, out of the direct path of the water. "Turn for me."

Bob doesn't argue, just faces the shower wall.

"Grab the faucet," Spencer says, a suggestion, really. Bob takes it. Spencer carves his tongue from the soft, vulnerable hollow at the base of Bob's head to his tailbone, lower. He presses his tongue inside Bob's ass and Bob breathes, "Fuck, you're so— Fuck."

Spencer pulls back, swirls his tongue around the entrance, sucks and even bites, gently. He's not in the mood to play. He doesn't think Bob is either. He brings his hand to Bob's cock even as he pushes his tongue back in, far, as far he can make it go, dragging it against every inch of skin, of possible nerve-endings available. One of Bob's hands comes down, over his, guiding. That's fine, Spencer doesn't mind being helped out on occasion.

Bob comes with a shout, a breath, and has to put his second hand back to the wall to steady himself for a bit. When he has found his feet anew, he turns and grabs the soap. "My turn," he tells Spencer knowingly, and yet without presumption. Spencer holds to him as he cleans Spencer, one spot garnering particular attention.

 

 

*

Spencer breathes again for the first time in what feels like a year when he looks at his Sidekick and finds an email from Bob with an address in it and the words, "Mikey. He's accepting visitors."

Spencer sends Mikey a box of Bubbalicious and a copy of "Coraline". He gets a thank you letter, printed out in neat handwriting and signed. It makes Spencer feel kind of guilty because while he does hope Mikey's doing better, mostly he wants him to go back and help fix the band.

Bob calls after every single visit he makes to Mikey. He doesn't say that's why he's calling, but Spencer can tell because Bob tends to talk about random shit at those times, like the custom chess set he wants to order—nevermind that he doesn't play chess—or Spencer's newest pair of shoes. Anything that's not Mikey and the band. It makes it hard to gauge how things are going. Eventually Spencer asks, "Hey, listen, maybe you could tell me how Iero's doing? With Way? Or just, y'know."

"He isn't fighting with Gerard as much anymore."

Spencer meant Mikey and he's about to say so when he realizes Bob knew. That was Bob's answer. "How about Toro and Way?" It sucks having two people with the same last name in one band.

Bob catches on. Spencer wonders if he had to develop an instinct for that. "The shouting's gone way down. Mikey's been talking about maybe commuting."

Spencer's hard pressed to contain his glee as he asks, "Is that good for him?" but he manages. As much as the band needs Mikey, they need him whole, not re-breaking himself in a misguided attempt to paste them back together.

"That's why he's still talking, instead of doing."

"Yeah, okay."

"Can I go back to talking about the tattoo I'm planning for you now?"

"Were we talking about that?"

"No, but I think you owe me."

Spencer laughs. "Yeah, that's definitely how this works."

"You'll like it."

Spencer rolls his eyes. "I will, will I?"

 

 

*

Brendon says, "I don't get why we're fucking around on this. Let's get him signed. What are we, gonna hold auditions? He filled in for Brent because we _asked_ , why are we being all exclusionary? We're not assholes. Or, at least, we weren't last time I checked."

Ryan is looking at Spencer, but Spencer can't tell if it's in appreciation or confusion. Ryan can be hard to parse at times. Spencer rubs at his own shoulders. "I'm not trying to be an asshole. I just don't think—"

Brendon waits, but finally says, "What don't you think? That we should be replacing Brent? Because we probably shoulda thought of that before we sent him home."

"Stop it," Ryan says, but it sounds like a request, maybe even a plea.

Brendon stops. He takes a deep breath. "Look, I'm just not sure we should be acting like we have so many options that we can afford to pass up a good thing when it comes along."

"I think Jon understands that we feel the need to be slightly cautious," Spencer says. He does, too. Jon's a great guy. If he weren't in love with Brendon, Spencer would submit to signing him in a second. Spencer would write the papers up himself. As it is, he needs time to determine if Jon's the kind of guy who can keep things to himself. He seems like he probably is. But Spencer has been wrong before. On numerous occasions. A trial period is the only way to be safe, and Spencer isn't letting Brendon's obliviousness get in the way of that, he just isn't.

Brendon tilts his head. "I thought you liked him. If you don't—"

"I like him."

"Because you're being—"

"We liked Brent, too," Ryan says, his voice even more flat than usual.

Brendon's eyes cut to Ryan. The two of them hold each other's gaze for a moment before Brendon says, "Do we have any idea how long this trial period is going to be?"

Spencer can afford to compromise on that; he's gotten what he needs.

 

 

*

Jon doesn't really seem all that put off by the fact that Spencer says, "Look, it's nothing personal, we'd just like to make sure you're going to fit right."

Jon shrugs and says, "Makes sense," and then plays so hard Spencer's really not going to know what to do if it turns out he is the kind of guy who's willing to try and cut Ryan away from Brendon. The first few weeks have Spencer so tense that he's going to have to start replacing drum heads prematurely if he can't calm down. Luckily the entire thing with Brent made him pretty high strung, so not even Ryan notices a difference.

Bob does, but then, Bob doesn't have eyes, for the most part, when it comes to Spencer, just ears. Spencer hears things in Bob's voice that he bets the other My Chem guys have no idea about. Bob finally says, "Look, is it just that he's not Brent? Because I know Brent was your friend but he was also kind of a shit to you guys as things went on—"

"He wants Brendon."

"Oh."

Spencer nods. Bob must sense it, because he says, "And you think he might—"

"I don't know. I don't know. He's a good guy. He is. So I feel sort of—"

Bob waits, though, hears that Spencer isn't done.

"When we were kids, Ryan was pretty different. He used to be really, um. He used to like people a lot, always want them to be his friends. I think that's how we became friends, because if he'd been like this? I don't know. I was four, okay? I think I would have just played with my sisters. But he wasn't. Only, kids are the worst people in the world and Ryan was too smart even as one and sometimes they'd lead him along and humiliate him and it got to the point where I would look at anybody who wanted to be friends with him with suspicion, which _sucked_ because there was so much reason to want to be his friend and to this day I think maybe I scared off certain people who could have been, could have been _our_ friend and that's why we were big fucking losers back there. My point is—"

"You're used to protecting him."

"Yes."

"Maybe you should talk to Jon. Just tell him what you're thinking."

"It seems sort of punitive. So far as I can tell, he hasn't even flirted with Brendon."

"Not even when he was with TAI?"

"No."

"Spencer."

"Am I holding out too long?"

"There's nothing wrong with protecting him," Bob says softly.

"But."

"Not exactly but. I'm just not sure exactly what else Jon could do to prove he's not going to move in on Brendon."

"Maybe find somebody else. That would be good."

"We could introduce him to Matt."

"That could work."

"I was joking. I think he might be dating Brian."

"Eh, there's room for one more."

Bob laughs.

 

 

*

When Spencer is watching Bob perform, Bob always knows where he is without having to be told. It's odd, because Bob isn't the world's most intuitive guy, but there are certain things that are just written on his bones. Everything Spencer Smith is one of them. He loses Spencer after the show, though, in the rush to get out, to get back to the hotel. Spencer finds him again, in Bob's room, the way Spencer is wont to do. Bob lets Spencer in and Spencer asks, "How come nobody throws bottles quite so accurately at you guys? You guys wear makeup, and Gerard doesn't even move as quickly as Brendon."

To say, "They like us better," seems like it might hit a little close to all of Spencer's raw spots, the ones he's trying to heal with sarcasm and a good dose of just holding back the utter _rage_ until it siphons off. Bob settles on, "They save the bottles for the truly pretty boys."

"Mikey and Gerard'd both be dead. Deader than dead."

"It's come pretty close," Bob admits. Worm is good at making things as safe as possible, but he's seen Ray pull Frank out of the way of flying glass before, seen Gerard duck just in time. Mikey stands pretty far back, which helps.

Spencer asks, "You ever throw any of it back?" His anger is a lot closer to the surface than usual, and Bob wonders if maybe he should push, see if he can get him to let go. He's not afraid of the explosion. The question is whether he's afraid it won't happen. He is. A little.

"They're our audience, Spence."

"They're violent, psychotic, little shits," Spencer squeezes out from between his teeth, clearly physically holding himself back from saying anything more.

"Now you sound like the critics," Bob says lightly.

Spencer's smile is sharper, more deceptively mundane than the aluminum edge of the opening on a soda can. Bob presses, "It's just a few of them, it's just a few fucked up kids—"

"I hate _all_ of them," Spencer says, and _there we go, yes, come on Spence, come on._ "Every single last fucking one of them. With their need to know us, need to have us for their fucking own. Just fucking _listen_ because Ryan's a million things, but he's not a fucking liar, not that, and he tells people but then they always want more, always want the part of Brendon that Brendon doesn't want, that nobody wanted, nobody but us, but now he's not Brendon, he's Brendon _Urie_ and now they think they have the right to make him something else and sure it's desirable but it's not _real_ and so if you hit it with a fucking _bottle_ — I hate them. Hatehatehatehatehate—"

"Spence," Bob says, because he knows Spencer can't stop. Spencer makes a sound that is pure, sheer anger, nothing more, nothing less. Bob asks, "More?" and doesn't touch Spencer, doesn't do anything that might impede the necessary outpouring.

"I wanted to rip their genitals off and feed them back to them, puree them and make them drink them out of their damn bottles." Spencer sounds calmer, though, like the worst of it has been expunged.

Bob nods. "Sometimes I dream of pouring the piss-filled bottles they throw at us directly into their mouths."

"Nice," Spencer says, approvingly. "An enema would be better, though."

"You have an impressive mind for revenge."

"Sign of psychopathic tendencies, I'm pretty sure."

"You should try and not limit your victims to your audience, in that case, makes it harder to trace it back."

"Most psychopaths are pretty smart."

Bob touches Spencer, wraps a hand around his neck. His pulse is calming. "Better?"

"I try not to—"

"I know. But sometimes—"

"Yeah. Thanks. For, y'know, tripping it."

Bob says, "You're fucking gorgeous when you're pissed."

"I'd better watch out for bottles, then."

"Definitely."

 

 

*

The second week on the tour Spencer picks up his phone and says, "Bryar."

Bob's, "Smith," comes out amidst a pretty wracking cough.

"Okay, that's new," Spencer says.

"You want me to come there, or you want to come here?"

"What, your guys can't handle a measly little cough? I knew My Chem was made up of pussies."

"You like fixing things." Bob sounds tired, and Spencer feels a little bit like a shit for giving him trouble.

"Want me to come get you?"

"Nah, it's just a cough."

No sooner has Spencer hung up the phone than Brendon says, "If he has Ebola, I swear I'm haunting your dead ass with my dead ass."

"Don't start with me, Urie," Spencer says, because he's damn well owed by everyone in the band—well, maybe not Jon, although, really, it's only a matter of time—and they know it.

Bob shows up looking like maybe he does have Ebola and Spencer wonders if he should have gone to him, but if it's infectious, he just would have brought it back anyhow. If it's infectious, likelihood is it's been lying dormant, and Spencer already has it anyway. He takes Bob and puts him in his bunk. He brings him water and winces a bit when the overwhelming majority seems to end up in Bob's chest. He asks, "You hungry?"

Bob shakes his head. "Wanna sleep."

"Too much coughing?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, hang tight."

Spencer runs to Fall Out Boy's bus, because Hurley's pretty chill and tends to keep a pharmacy stocked on board. He knocks and Pete answers and says, "Hey," and looks slightly behind him. Spencer says, "I didn't bring Ryan. I need NyQuil."

Pete blinks. "Come on in." He moves back and calls, "Hey, Andy, you have any NyQuil?"

"Uh, sure," comes from the back of the bus.

"Somebody sick?" Pete asks.

"Bob," Spencer says.

"Shit," Pete says, rather succinctly.

"Yup, that about sums it up."

Hurley appears with the bottle and Spencer says, "I'll hit you back next week."

Hurley shrugs, "Tell Bryar it's not like you need your throat to play."

Spencer smiles at Hurley, who smiles back. Pete mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, "Drummers," but whatever, because Spencer and Hurley and Bob aren't the ones going around mooning after other people's bandmates and boyfriends. Spencer says, "I gotta get back."

Pete calls out, "No, seriously, tell Bryar to feel better."

Spencer doesn't tell Bob anything. He gives him a double dose of NyQuil before shimmying into the bunk with him and rubbing at the muscles of his back—tight from coughing and general misery—until he feels him doze off. He gets up then and takes care of some business with his laptop, sitting in the bunk directly below his--Jon's--so that he can hear the changes in Bob's breathing. Ryan comes in and sits next to him and kicks his foot with his own. "He okay?

Spencer says, "Not sure. Giving it a few hours."

Ryan watches as Spencer syncs his palm to his laptop, downloading the directions for the nearest hospital, just in case. "You got a car?"

"Mike Carden rented one for the stay. I think he has a girl, or something, here. I emailed him. He said it's cool."

"Need any help?"

"No, you keep yourself healthy."

Ryan smiles a bit.

"Oh, shut up, Ross."

"No, I just—" Ryan touches his hip. "I'm just glad he came. We're never... It's nice that he'll let you make him better."

"He has the ability," Spencer says, without blame or disappointment. He really does love Ryan as he is.

"That's good." Ryan nods. "It's good, isn't it?"

"Yeah, Ry."

"Don't pay any attention to Brendon."

"I never do."

"He thinks it's good, too."

"I know," Spencer tells him.

"Okay. Just— Yeah, okay."

Bob's cough starts up again, harsh and with distinct tearing sounds peppered through it. Spencer pushes Ryan off the bunk. "Go."

He stands up, and puts his hands to Bob's forehead, to his chest, and waits for the worst of it to pass.

 

 

*

Spencer wakes in the middle of the night to the sound of Bob struggling to catch a breath, any breath. He says, "Yeah, okay, I'll be right back," and runs so hard for My Chem's bus that he can hear the wind in his ears, feel it on his lips. He bangs on the door and after a minute or so Gerard tumbles down the stairs and opens it for him and says, "Smith, what the—"

"Get your shoes on, I need a navigator."

"Navigator?"

"Hospital. Way, seriously, get your shoes on, I'll explain while we're running."

Gerard nods, "No, I'm awake now. I. Yeah, gimme a second."

It's literally a second before Gerard reappears with shoes and Spencer warms a bit. Gerard runs back with him, tripping twice. When they reach the bus he says, "I think I stole Ray's shoes. His feet are bigger than mine."

"Ryan might be about your shoe size—"

"Don't worry about it."

Spencer's not going to. He sees, as they approach, that Ryan's gone and gotten the car, and Jon and Brendon are pouring Bob into it, buckling him up. Spencer wants to kiss every single member of his band, but there just isn't time. Maybe when his boyfriend can breathe again. Spencer all but throws his Sidekick at Gerard and climbs into the driver's seat. "Where am I going?"

Gerard tells him, turn by turn, his voice calm and steady over the racked, miserable sounds of Bob's efforts to get oxygen. They pull up to the emergency entrance and Gerard says, "Go, I'll park."

Spencer hoists Bob onto his shoulders and walks him slowly to the desk. He says, calmly, "My friend can't breathe."

Bob does his part, turning ever more blue right beside him. The nurse behind the desk nods and picks up the phone, says something into it. Spencer loves people who are calm at times of great stress. Gerard is just coming in the door when a doctor and a few orderlies come with a gurney, ushering Bob onto it. The doctor asks, "Are either of you family?"

Spencer says, "He's his brother," pointing at Gerard without so much as blinking. Gerard throws a quick glance his way, but doesn't otherwise act surprised.

He nods, "Older brother."

"Okay, sir, we ask that you both wait out here, we'll tell you as soon as we know something."

Spencer sits down and opens a People and begins to read all the human interest stories that have nothing to do with famous people. Gerard says, "Hey, Smith."

Spencer looks up.

"You didn't have to come get me. That was—"

"He'd've gotten one of my guys."

"Still."

"I get that I'm a kid to you, but I'm not bad for him, so—"

"We don't think you're bad for him. We don't."

Spencer goes back to the story about the dog who saved the baby, because last time he saw his boyfriend, he wasn't exactly breathing. Spencer's good in a crisis, but there's a breaking point and sometimes a guy just wants to read about magical wonder dogs who randomly decide that today is a good day to fish a baby out of a swimming pool. Or something. The story isn't making a lot of sense, which is either because Spencer is suddenly illiterate or because People has begun hiring people who are. Six to one, half dozen to the other.

Gerard puts a hand on his knee. "Smith, hey, look at me."

Spencer gives him his best patient, "Yes?" expression.

"He's gonna be okay."

It shouldn't make any difference to hear it from Gerard, who has no fucking clue what's going on, any more than Spencer does, but it sort of helps. "I know."

Gerard moves into the chair next to him and throws his arm over Spencer's shoulders and says, "Okay, well, just so long as you do."

Spencer shouldn't, he thinks, but he fits his head against Gerard's shoulder and closes his eyes and just breathes.

 

 

*

The doctor comes out and Spencer forgets all about Lassie, standing to meet her. At his side, Gerard is on his feet as well, balanced precariously in Ray's footwear. Gerard is the next of kin at this moment, so Spencer lets him say, "Yes? How is he?"

The doctor is a tiny, tiny woman, tinier than Spencer, even, but she exudes calm and says, "I'm Dr. Sansa. He is fine, or rather, he will be. He has an upper respiratory infection that got a little out of hand. He probably should have been brought in a couple of days ago."

"We were in Louisville," Gerard says.

"Last I checked, they had hospitals there, too," she says, but her voice isn't completely devoid of sympathy. "Anyhow, we're going to need to keep him overnight, finish up the round of antibiotics we're feeding him by IV and make sure he rests. He's being rather insistent about playing—are you guys athletes, or something? In any case, he needs to rest. There'll be a course of antibiotics for him to take once he leaves. I'll have the nurse at the desk draw up instructions."

"I'll handle it," Gerard promises, his voice soft but confident, and Spencer, who's listened to every single one of his albums and not yet been saved, starts to see where the kids are coming from. "Can we please see him?"

The doctor appraises them. "The policy states only one visitor at a time—"

Spencer takes a slight step back, because if it were Ryan not even Brendon would be going in there first, and that's just how it is. She asks, "What time is it?"

Spencer glances at the clock that has been his arch nemesis for the last hour and a half. "Three-thirty seven."

She smiles. "Go on then, just don't tell anyone."

Spencer grins at her. "Thanks." He's on his way before she can change her mind.

Bob is asleep, a cannula lying across his upper lip, an IV running into his left hand. Gerard goes to his side, soothes the hair off his forehead. "I should have mentioned that we were leaving tomorrow. You think we're gonna be able to?"

Spencer surreptitiously threads his fingers into the hand that's not connected to machines. "She just said overnight. Probably not a big deal as long as he's sleeping and taking his meds."

"If you wanted to go back, get some sleep— I know you guys are playing tomorrow night."

"So are you," Spencer says.

"Okay, well. Why don't you take the chair?"

"Give me a couple of minutes and I'll go charm the nurse into giving us a second one. Had to do it in high school all the time. There's strategy involved."

Gerard looks at Spencer for a couple of seconds. "I'm gonna run to the bathroom."

Spencer catches his gaze. "Thanks."

Left alone, Spencer says, "You, Bob Bryar, are a giant dickface who can't take care of himself for shit and I have enough of those in my life, all right?" Then, "I'll repeat some of that when you're awake, just so you know." He touches his forehead to Bob's and listens as his breath comes—not easily, but it comes. In and out. In and out.

Gerard slips back in the room with an apologetic look on his face. Spencer says, "I'm gonna go see about that chair."

He walks outside the hospital and keys up his cellphone. Ryan picks up on the first ring. "Spence. How is he?"

Spencer gives an overview of the situation, says, "I'll be back in the morning, promise."

"You gotta sleep on the bus, you know. I mean, you gotta."

"Yeah, Ryan, I'm not gonna fall asleep mid-show. Relax, all right?"

"I'm a relaxed guy," Ryan tells him.

Spencer grins. "Hey. Thanks. For tonight. With the car. Tell the others, right?"

"You don't have to—"

"Tell them, Ryan Ross."

"Didn't say I wouldn't."

"Didn't say you did."

Ryan huffs. "Mean."

"Mm," Spencer says, and hangs up. He goes inside, finds the first nurse who looks like she might have a soft spot for tired boys, and goes to work.

 

 

*

In the morning, Spencer goes and cajoles his Now Favorite Nurse into bringing Bob blue Jell-o. He says, "Eat. I won't tell Ray."

Gerard is sleeping. Bob takes three bites and says, "Might have to sleep again, now."

Spencer nods. "Sounds about right."

"We're leaving soon, right?"

Spencer pulls the tray back and readjusts the bed so that Bob's lying down. "Hour or so. Go to sleep."

He lets Gerard sleep for another half hour and then says, "You're probably gonna have to do the paperwork signing him out, what with the brother thing. I'll see about getting him unhooked and dressed and you can wait with him while I get the car."

Gerard stands and stretches and when his arms fall they fall around Spencer somehow, pulling him into Gerard. Gerard is warm and not sharp in all the places Spencer has gotten used to Ryan and Brendon poking him. His arms are strong without being confining and Spencer finds himself bringing his own arms up, clinging for the barest of moments. Gerard ruffles his hair and asks, "Aren't they going to notice my last name is different?"

"It doesn't really matter at this point."

"Right."

Spencer puts his lips to Bob's forehead, kisses him, says, "Okay, Bryar, time to go."

Bob mutters, "Changed my mind. Staying."

"Uh huh. Come on, open your eyes. The nurses are gonna wanna see proof you can be released to your own care."

"I thought I was being released into your care?"

"Same difference to them."

Bob puts in some serious effort, and by the time Spencer's Favorite Nurse Ever comes in to help with the IV and the cannula, he's looking well on his way to actually alive. When the nurse leaves, Bob asks, "Seriously, Smith, did you go down on her or something?"

"Don't be a pig," Spencer says, because nurses are a little akin to divine entities in his experience.

Bob steals a kiss from the side of Spencer's mouth then says, "Oh shit, I'm not contagious, am I?"

"I think the antibiotics cleared that up. If you are, though, I'm pretty sure I'm already screwed."

Bob grins at his choice of wording. Spencer rolls his eyes and pulls Bob's top over his head. "Child."

Bob sticks his head through the collar, "Does that make you the infant?"

Gerard pops into the room. "I think I may have signed away my first born child."

"No, they only take the second one," Spencer reassures him.

"Hey, Gerard's here," Bob says.

"My boyfriend is pretty observant," Spencer tells Gerard.

"Mm," Gerard agrees.

"They're bringing a wheelchair; I'm gonna go pull up to the front."

"Orange three," Gerard says, handing him the keys.

"'Kay."

"I don't need a wheelchair," Bob says.

"You need a brain transplant," Spencer says. "And it's hospital policy, so don't give the nurses any trouble, they've been here all night and they haven't been sleeping."

"Is it a nurse fetish?"

Spencer leaves to go find the car.

 

 

*

Mikey takes Bob from Gerard the minute they're on the bus, but nobody tries to take his other side from Spencer because Gerard has called while waiting for him to pull up with the car and said, "Leave the kid alone, all right?"

Spencer helps get him into his bunk and pulls the covers up over him. Frank puts a hand to Bob's shoulder and says, “I changed your sheets.”

"Made of win, Iero," Bob says, and looks at Spencer who says, "Sleep."

"You staying?"

"I told Mike I'd take the car back to the rental place, you know, since he let me have it, and my guys need to know I actually made it into the caravan. Also, I need to sleep, because some of us have to work tonight."

"I'm playing."

"Okay, you live the dream," Spencer snorts.

"No set without drums," Bob tells him.

Gerard says, "We'll find someone who's not playing tonight."

"I could do it," Spencer says. "We're not on at the same time, and I know your set."

Frank asks, "You really up for that?"

"I'll sleep on the way there, then blackmail Brendon into giving over some of his Red Bull. It'll be fine."

Gerard looks at the tiny waif of a person in front of him. Spencer hasn't slept, he knows, not more than one or two hours. They meet each other's gaze and Spencer says, "I know your set."

Gerard nods. "All right. For tonight, anyhow. We'll talk again after that."

Frank says, "Okay, but I'm taking the car back. You're going straight to your bus."

Spencer hands over the keys, kisses an already-sleeping Bob, and says, "See ya tonight."

Frank goes off and Mikey tells Gerard, "You gotta sleep, too."

Gerard nods and crawls into his own bunk. He feels Mikey tugging his shoes off, but can't be bothered to stay awake for it, let alone help. He wakes up to the feel of road being traveled beneath him and the sound of Bob coughing. Frank looks up at him, holding three bottles. "You have any idea what he's supposed to take when?"

Gerard nods. "Spencer explained it." He takes the bottles from Frank and opens the water Frank hands him and they both get Bob into enough of a sitting position that he can actually swallow the meds. Frank takes the meds to put them back where they won't get lost—an occurrence of startling regularity on a fairly small bus. Gerard stays as the coughing slacks off.

Bob says, "Least it feels like it's doing something, now."

Gerard nods.

"Sorry 'bout tonight."

"Smith is good on the drums."

"He's gonna be better. He knows the drums are the core, but he forgets that they can be more. He holds himself back so the other guys can shine."

"And you go to town holding us up, prodding us along."

"I'm too tired for metaphors, Gee."

"That was a pretty simple one."

"Did you think I'd been fucking him for almost a year because he was pretty? Because, I mean, I know I'm not you or your pretty-boy sibling, or even Iero, but believe me, I manage all right."

"I thought maybe he amused you. You like to laugh."

"He does amuse me. He's a funny guy. You probably didn't get much of that last night, which is tragic."

"Not what I meant."

"I know, and I love you, Gee, as much or more as I love any guy in this band, but sometimes you're a bit of a supercilious fuck. You should give that up. You'd have more fun."

"I think it might fuck with our emo."

Bob smiles, tries to laugh, coughs instead. Gerard waits for it to pass. Bob says, "Maybe, but we'd forgive you."

"I should have talked to him earlier."

"Yeah. Over a year, Gee."

"I'll be better. We'll be better."

"Okay. Because Spence and I, there's a lot of shit we don't talk about, but the kid holds his world together with two hands, half the time while he's using them to drum. And he's good at it, really good, and I think he even gets off on it a bit, particularly times like now, when there are solutions and if he just reaches out he can catch hold of them, but there are a lot of times when that's not the case and occasionally he could use another pair of hands."

"Ross and Urie and Walker?"

"Ross and Urie— I don't know, like I said, there's a lot of shit we don't talk about. Walker's still fairly new. He shows promise, though. The thing is, I already know you. I don't have to be on the lookout for promise."

Gerard nods. "You do that thing. With your hands."

"Yeah, but so do you, sometimes, and Ray and Mikey and even Frank."

"I'm just saying, the two of you fit like that."

"We fit in a lot of ways." Bob's eyes close as he makes the statement.

Gerard whispers, "Yeah, that's the cue," and wanders out to go sleep on the couch, where Mikey and Frank will let him lay his head or feet or both in their laps. Frank takes Gerard's head and puts a warm palm to the skin between his shoulder blades. "Smith, huh?"

Gerard says, "Spencer."

 

 

*

My Chem plays two hours after Panic. Spencer sleeps them away in My Chem's quiet area. Gerard wakes him up with a soft, "Hey. Spencer, hey."

Spencer blinks himself awake. "Yup, here."

"Still up for this?"

Spencer grabs his sticks. He would use Bob's, but like his they've melded to their user's hands and Bobs are considerably larger than his. "Let's do it."

It's weird, really weird, playing someone else's music, but Spencer sort of loves it, loves being inside Bob's head this way. He'll have to tell him about it later. The thought makes him hard, and he plays the entire last half the set hard from performance adrenaline and the lingering feel of Bob within the kit. He can't see over it—Bob doesn't need a stand, so Spencer's eyes are well below the line of the highest drum—and when they thank him for filling in, Iero comes and hoists him by his elbows up onto the chair. He grins like a monkey and says, "Wave."

Spencer rolls his eyes at Iero, but waves. The crowd goes pretty wild. He says, "Can I sit down now, please?" and Iero steps away. His boyfriend's bandmates are all freaks. Ray smiles at him through a space in the kit and Spencer realizes it doesn't so much bother him.

Afterward he's trying to remember which direction Panic is parked in, when Iero says, "Come on," and pushes him from behind, Mikey taking advantage of Spencer's exhaustion and disorientation to steal his cell phone. He says, "Hey," and grabs for it, but Mikey just holds it over his head, the tall freak of emo-boy genetics.

Mikey presses a two and grins. "Predictable."

Spencer hears Ryan pick up and yells, "They're holding me hostage."

Mikey says, "Hey, Ross."

Ryan, the complete traitor, says, "Um, hi?"

"This is Mikey Way. We're taking Spencer with us. He'll see you in Albuquerque."

Ryan says something.

"We'll find him some. Don't worry."

More murmuring.

"Yeah, he was pretty fucking awesome, wasn't he?"

Spencer blinks at Mikey as Ryan continues to talk.

"Right, well, hopefully we won't have to hit you back, but if you ever need—" Mikey laughs at something. "Uh huh, Ross. See you on the flipside." Mikey hands Spencer back his phone. Spencer looks at it, wondering if he can ever trust it again. Then he pockets it. They're at the bus. Frank prods him up the stairs and into the shower.

Spencer says, "Uh, these are my only—"

"I'm gonna find you something, just get in."

Spencer doesn't take long, because there are four other guys—not three—and they aren't his guys. A hand reaches in holding out boxers and a tee. Spencer grabs them. "Thanks."

He re-emerges and pads to where he knows they're keeping Bob. He's awake, if somewhat drowsy. Bob says, "Gerard tells me you are The Sex."

"You had to be told that by Gerard?" Spencer asks.

"Always nice to have confirmation, is all."

Spencer says, "Move over, bunk hog."

Bob scoots closer to the edge of the bunk and Spencer climbs carefully over him, to wrap himself solidly around. Bob asks, "So, how was it for you?"

"Better than sex."

"You're hurting my feelings."

"It's intentional."

"You're only getting away with this because my lungs aren't working, Smith."

"That, and you really like my ass."

"Maybe that, too."

Spencer smirks. He buries his face in Bob's neck. "How you feeling?"

"Better."

"Pissed at me for taking you to the hospital?"

"I've decided your intentions were good."

"Oh, generous."

"I am. Endlessly." Bob rolls into Spencer as much as he can. "Go to sleep."

Spencer's too far gone to say, "Why should I?"

 

 

*

Spencer looks up to find iced coffee being handed down to him. He smiles at Gerard. It's not a full smile, those take energy and Spencer needs what he's got of that. Gerard doesn't seem to mind. He sits down next to Spencer, presses his shoulder to Spencer's. "Drink up."

Spencer takes several long pulls. It's got cinnamon in it, which Spencer likes. He wonders if Gerard asked Bob. "Bob still asleep?"

"He's very good at sleeping."

Spencer nods. "Almost better than he is at drumming."

Gerard snickers. "How are you?"

"This is good coffee."

"Yep, how are you?"

"Fine, a little tired."

"Yeah, I bet."

"Look, not that I don't appreciate the coffee and the company's fine and all, but last time I checked you didn't like me very much, so—"

"I didn't trust you. It's different. I never disliked you. I didn't know you well enough to like or dislike you."

"Because I lied?" Spencer looks down into his coffee cup.

"The thing is—" Gerard sighs. "The thing is, I get why you did it. He'd never have— I get it, and it's almost good that you did, but it's even better that Mikey is really smart about people sometimes, because otherwise Bob would have just, I dunno, maybe just kept sitting around like he did. His playing was for shit and he was just so, I mean, just so," Gerard makes a completely nonsensical gesture with his hands that Spencer reads as "so like-you-were-after-he-tried-to-break-up-with-you."

Spencer nods.

"And you'd done that. To one of mine. How was I supposed to trust you?"

"You didn't want to trust me," Spencer says. It isn't an accusation, it's just the truth. If Gerard had wanted to, he would have tried. That's the kind of guy Gerard is.

"You were a kid. I figured he'd grow out of you and you'd be gone and then why would I have bothered?"

Spencer takes another sip of the coffee. The cold is starting to burn. "Still a kid."

"No, that was me being stupid."

Spencer looks over at Gerard.

"I'm hoping it's a forgivable sin."

"I don't—"

"When you're back there, behind me? When you're taking care of us so that he won't have to, so that he can heal? That's not a kid, Spencer. That's someone who knows how to save things, how to hold onto them with care. And I knew it, I knew it when you just took him into that hospital and he was bigger than you and you didn't stumble, I knew, but I'd gotten used to not seeing you and it took a little bit to readjust my vision. I'm sorry."

"I shouldn't have lied," Spencer says. "I should have found another way."

"It's okay," Gerard tells him.

"Maybe a little bit better," Spencer says.

"Than okay?"

"Yeah."

Gerard grins.

 

 

*

The first night Gerard declares Bob well enough to play again, Panic's set is actually considerably earlier in the day, which is convenient, as Spencer can shower and dress in clothes that don't smell of decomposing water buffaloes before going to watch.

Jon comes with him, flip-flops snapping in a soothing, familiar rhythm as they make their way out to the right stage. He asks, "So, you're not, you know, angling for a place in My Chem?"

Spencer says, "Asshole," and Jon grins. Spencer's glad Jon's there, because he has someone to turn to and exchange looks of, "Um, yeah," with when My Chem pull off a particularly spectacular rendition of “Famous Last Words.” And because after the show Jon says, "Go get yourself laid, Smith," and leaves him to his own devices.

Spencer slips backstage and Frank says, "Hey, we were looking for you. Wanna permanent gig?"

"Blow me, Iero," Bob says lackadaisically.

Spencer says softly, "We could go back to my bus."

Bob asks, "Yeah?"

"Brendon promised to take Ryan somewhere."

"And Walker?"

Spencer doesn't say anything.

"Not socially retarded, right."

"Bob," Spencer says in warning.

"I mock because I love," Bob tells him with utter sincerity, and well, Spencer gets that.

Still, "Try getting to know them first."

"I don't have to know them," Bob tells him. "I know how you sound when you say their names."

Spencer blinks at that, glad they're walking side by side and Bob can't see his face.

"You don't talk much," Bob says. "I have to listen hard."

"You're not exactly Mr. Loquacious."

"You turn me on with your SAT words, Spencer Smith."

They're at the bus now and Spencer pushes him up the stairs and says, "I can think of better things to turn you on with."

"Yeah?" Bob asks, as if the question is purely theoretical.

Spencer has his mouth on Bob's before they're even entirely up the stairs. Bob trips, goes down, bringing Spencer with him in a tangle, but it's not far to fall. Spencer laughs into the kiss. Bob works his way out from beneath Spencer and drags him up the stairs, into the bus. Spencer doesn't resist.

They get as far as the carpeting in the main area of the bus, and then Spencer's not waiting anymore, not when he's had to wait for weeks, when he's had to watch Bob turn pale and blue, had to witness wires running every which way out of him. He kisses Bob so hard he tastes blood under the salt-drenched flavor of a post-show Bob. He works at ridding himself of clothes even as they kiss, ready, so fucking ready, and Bob, thankfully, isn't making him wait. Spencer has just enough presence of mind to grab the condom out of his back pocket, ripping into it, going for Bob's cock—they can suck each other sweet and slow, or maybe just slow, or maybe neither, later, but for now he just wants—

"No," Bob pants.

Spencer thinks about not begging, but really, what's the point in that? "Jesus, Bob, please, it's been—"

Bob takes the condom from him and Spencer is going to fucking cry he totally is, until Bob rolls the thing right onto Spencer's cock and Spencer literally goes, "Wha— Oh."

"You been taking moron pills while I wasn't around to watch?"

Spencer pushes Bob backward until he hits the windows. He presses a hand to his chest, sucking the fingers of his other hand into his mouth. Bob's eyes roll into the back of his head. Spencer grins around his fingers. He pushes one into Bob, quick and rough and Bob says, "Yeah, Jesus, Spence, yeah," so Spencer pushes in a second. Bob strains against the hand on his chest to lick at Spencer's lips. Spencer pulls his fingers out, uses his second hand to press up, to lift Bob onto his cock.

"You. Complete. Stud," Bob says as he sinks back to the floor, onto Spencer. Spencer shifts upward, because really? If there's coherent speech, he's not doing this right.

"Guh," Bob tells him. Yeah. That's better. Spencer twists his hips a little. Bob gurgles.

Spencer asks, while he still can, "What is this?" because it's sweet, but not something Spencer needs. Bob really, really can't answer, even if there were words they wouldn't be able to make it past his throat, not thrown back the way it is. Spencer grabs at his hair and yanks his head down for a kiss, his other hand crushing Bob's dick between his palm and Bob's stomach.

Bob bites Spencer's tongue as he comes, hard enough that Spencer moans, and squirms and it's that unplanned movement that tips Spencer right over into orgasm. They slide down the wall pretty much together, even if Spencer finds the floor first. Bob says, "Just. You know. You saved my life."

"Oh my god, you let me fuck you out of some misguided notion of gratitude?"

"No, I let you fuck me out of the deep desire to have your cock in my ass. This just seemed like a good time."

"Fair enough," Spencer says.

"I'm gonna shower before we get stuck together and can't have sex again at all tonight."

"Smart of you."

"Get off me."

"Move me yourself."

Bob waits another minute or so before following Spencer's command.

 

 

*

Bob wakes up and carefully rolls out of the bunk, leaving Spencer to sleep a little longer. Urie and Ross are sitting next to each other, not touching, at the table. Urie looks up and says, "There's coffee in the kitchen."

"Sweet nectar of the gods," Bob says, and heads in that direction. He comes and sits down across from them. "Walker still sleeping?"

"Somewhere," Ross mumbles, his lips quirking. Bob smirks. He takes a sip of the coffee. It's brewed slightly darker than he would usually prefer, but it will work.

Urie says, "So you're feeling better."

Bob nods. "Thanks for keeping me."

Urie starts, "You're just lucky—" but Ross interrupts, "Why'd you come to Spencer?" his eyes overlarge with concentration.

"He likes to fuss."

Urie frowns. Ross says quietly, "He doesn't fuss."

Bob takes another sip and thinks about the way Spencer snapped to their defense the other night, the way Bob has seen him look at the crowd with a vague warning glance, a "you stay where you are." "He likes to put shit back together." Bob taught Spencer how to fix a tire a month into what had then just been their thing and had the best sex of his life over the hood of the car.

Ross fiddles with the pad he hasn't written in since Bob sat down. "Spence," he says softly, his mouth barely moving. Urie puts a hand to the side of Ross's face. Ross stills for a moment before leaning in. Urie looks up at Bob with an expression that is part-ferocity, part-triumph, part-uncertainty. He says, "It's good. That you give him that."

Ross looks away, but not before Bob catches the raw quality of his eyes. Bob says, "He doesn't stay with you because he's incapable of leaving shit unfixed. He's not."

Ross laughs a bit, wet and short. "I know."

Urie rolls his eyes at Ross's back. He leans over and kisses his shoulder. Ross says, "I do."

"Okay," Urie agrees.

Bob's a little pissed because, "He would walk into a crowd of screaming hysterical fourteen year olds for you, all right, and that's pretty fucking deep, so if you could—"

Urie says, "Stop. You don't— Spencer gets this part."

Bob imagines he does. Jesus. "Does he get the part where you feel the same way?" Bob thought Spencer did, but with Ross curled up on himself and Urie barely penetrating that defensive shield, it's a little hard to tell.

Urie nods. "He knows. Like you said, he doesn't stay because he can't fix us."

"I just like the way he smiles when he's with you," Ross says, looking Bob in the face and for the first time all morning, Bob starts to get where Spencer's coming from with this kid. Urie, he can see, but Ross is worse than some of the walls Bob has met in his life.

"I like that part, too," Bob says.

"You want some more coffee?" Ross asks, and Bob wonders if somewhere, underneath all the fear, the kid is sweet.

 

 

*

Spencer waits until Bob is good and well off the bus to fix Ryan and Brendon with a look that he knows will induce fidgeting and, shortly thereafter, confessions. Brendon breaks first. "Okay, we totally vetted your boyfriend, but we had good intentions."

Ryan nods. "Very good."

"Also, he sort of kicked our asses at the vetting thing, so why isn't he being given Yonder Glare of Doom?"

Spencer does not drop the glare. He does ask, "He did what?"

Ryan is now tapping both toes and fingers, which is never, ever a good sign. Brendon looks over Spencer's shoulder. "Uh. Nothing?"

"Brendon Boyd Urie and George Ryan Ross III!"

Ryan gasps, "That's just not fair."

"Whatever," Spencer says, "You're lucky you don't get fan mail addressed that way."

"I think he does," Brendon says. "I think they filter it out of the stuff we see."

"Subject at hand," Spencer reminds them.

"The problem is," Ryan says, because Brendon's busy looking like he might repent of his actions, "that he's kind of a good boyfriend."

Spencer runs a hand over his face. "Ryan, I know that the world doesn't always look the same from your corner of it—"

"He just got all defensive, and then we did and it was, hm. He didn't get that you know we love you. And we probably, I mean. We're sort of—"

Spencer holds up a hand. "Yeah."

Ryan's face crumples at that, but he stays sitting straight. Spencer sighs and goes to sit on Ryan's lap, forcing him further into the couch, his legs draping over Brendon's. "I meant that I know, Ryan, not that you guys suck, which you don't."

"Sometimes," Brendon says, and Ryan nods.

"You're harshing on my best friends over there, asshole."

Ryan presses his forehead to Spencer's bicep. "What, your boyfriend's allowed to do it, but not us?"

"What did he say Ryan? I mean, seriously."

Ryan shakes his head while keeping his forehead where it is. "Nothing that I want to tattle about."

Which could cover whole legions of things, so Spencer looks to Brendon for guidance. Brendon says, "He wasn't mean."

Spencer waits.

"No, really. It was Ryan as much as me, you think I'd lie?"

"To protect me, maybe," Spencer says, because Brendon clearly needs to hear it.

Brendon shrugs. "It's like Ryan said, he's just a good boyfriend."

"And you're okay with him?"

"He's keeping material," Ryan says. Brendon nods. Spencer closes his eyes, because his relief is intense enough for him to need to keep it slightly personal.

 

 

*

Spencer calls Bob. "Stay away from Ryan and Brendon."

"Hi Smith, how are you?"

"I'm serious, do you understand?"

"They tell you about our breakfast rendezvous?" Bob sounds a little surprised.

"Ryan's been walking around like someone's gonna pour boiling water on him, as opposed to just hit him, which is always a sign." And maybe Spencer is a little bit more pissed off than he thought he was when he hit seven on the speed dial.

"Jesus. Spence, you gotta believe, I didn't mean to fuck with his head."

Bob's voice is heavy, solid with concern and Spencer's anger is crushed by it, ground down. His, "Don't go around making him think he's not a good friend," is tired.

"I told them you didn't just stay because you couldn't fix them."

Spencer has to think about what the words mean. "Oh."

"The three of you carry a lot. Maybe Walker, too, but we haven't talked much."

Spencer thinks of Jon's even shoulders. "Yeah."

"You want me to say sorry to them?"

The offer is enough to make Spencer say, "No, they think you're keepable."

"Even after that?"

"They're both harder to scare than I probably make it seem."

"Ross said he likes the way I make you smile."

"Ryan is fucking easy."

"Ross may be the least easy person I've ever met, and I tour with Gerard and Mikey Way."

"Just think how you'd have to feel about yourselves if you didn't have us."

"I shudder to think."

Spencer laughs.

"I am sorry I hurt your guy."

Spencer sighs. "It mostly wasn't you. I shouldn't have yelled."

"You don't get to yell a lot."

Not nearly as much as he feels like it. "Doesn't mean you're the appropriate recipient."

"Good thing I pretty much like talking to you regardless."

"Healthy, Bryar."

"Comparatively?"

"Yeah, you've got a point."

 

 

*

Spencer gives his Sidekick to Frank and says, "Take one of us?"

Bob says, "No."

Spencer rolls his eyes, "I'm not gonna sell it to Metal Hammer, okay? I'm not even gonna email it to my mom, who has now been badgering me for fucking months to have a picture of me and my boyfriend, which, hi, my mom, so we're not talking anything lewd. I'm going to print it and bring it back to her when I'm at home. The only way this could possibly go wrong is—"

"While I actually do want to hear the theory about how Urie manages to get hold of the photo and accidentally sell it on eBay that I can feel coming, I don't want to take a picture."

"I recognize that being in front of the camera isn't your favorite thing in the world, but I've seen you do it for the guys."

"That's part of my job."

"And your job is now more important than me?" Spencer doesn't ask it like a hurt girl. He asks it like maybe he missed something. It's not entirely that he expects Bob's job, which is of course My Chem, to be less important than him, he probably even expects that it will, at times, be more important. This doesn't seem like one of those times.

"Fuck off, Smith."

Spencer says, "Yeah, okay," takes his Sidekick calmly back from Frank—who looks as though he wants to say something—and wanders off to do something that is not be in this space with Bob right now. He's really glad they're at the concert site and not on the bus, because Spencer really hates it when he wants to disappear and he's got nothing but a bunk to work with.

It takes twenty minutes for Bob to find him, which means two things, 1) Frank did say something, just not to Spencer, and 2) Spencer's talent for hide 'n go seek hasn't gotten any better from when he was seven and Ryan would beat him every time. For a while he thought Ryan just had some kind of freaky sixth sense, but no, as it turns out, he can't hide for crap. Spencer says, "No, I'm kind of busy being pissed off with you just now."

Bob says, "Frank told me I was being an asshole."

"You had to be told?"

Bob sits down next to Spencer. Spencer moves a couple of inches away. Bob sighs. "Every year, when I was a kid, my mom used to spend money we didn't have taking the two of us to a portrait studio, you know, like those ones at Sears?"

Spencer knows all too well. Family portraits are one of his definitions of hell. "Okay, and I grant you, having your hair slicked down and having to smile for an hour had to have been hell for an aspiring hardcore kid, but seriously—"

"She'd do it so that she'd have something to send to my father, a sort of 'look what you're missing'."

Spencer stays quiet at this pause, because he's mad, but this is Bob, and somewhere under Spencer's anger is a lot of things that are mostly hurt and now, maybe, concern.

"They'd come back unopened every year. Every fucking year. And she'd still do it."

Spencer nods. It had taken Mrs. Ross a lot longer to leave Ryan's dad than it should have.

"You're gonna give the picture to your mom, Spence. Can you see how maybe—"

"She's been clipping you out of My Chem pictures so that she can have something to put in our photo albums. Her desire for a picture passed pathetic about six states back."

Bob doesn't say anything and Spencer slides back next to him, fits himself against Bob's side. He says, "I'll tell her you believe cameras steal a person's soul."

Bob shakes his head. "One picture, okay?"

"I don't want—"

"I know it's sort of stupid, to still be stuck in that moment."

"It's really sort of not," Spencer says, and probably sounds more vehement than the sentiment merits. Ryan always thinks he should get over his stuff, too, when really, maybe there are things that have to linger.

"Still. It would be good. To have a picture with you."

"Yeah?"

Bob nods a little. "To know you wanted that."

Spencer straddles Bob so that Bob has to actively look away if he doesn't want to face Spencer. Spencer says, "I definitely want that."

Bob smirks, "You're such a sap."

"Uh huh," Spencer says, and pushes Bob onto his back.

 

 

*

Bob gives Spencer's Sidekick back to Frank and says, "Don't change his ring tones. Or his background. Or the settings on his voicemail."

Spencer notices that Frank makes no promises. He's pretty much screwed on that account. Which is okay, because he also notices the way Frank is good about catching Bob when he isn't expecting it, never even hears the soft click of the camera function. By the end of the day, Spencer doesn't have one picture of the two of them together, he has four.

The first one is of him laughing, nearly bent in half with it, Bob looking down at him, eyes crinkled and proud at doing that, making Spencer lose it like that. In the second they are clearly engaged in some sort of drawn out staring contest. Spencer's pretty sure that was over who got the last jawbreaker. Spencer had given in, mostly because Spencer can have all sorts of good candy, and Bob's pretty limited in his choices. The third has Spencer flipping a rather unimpressed looking Bob off, and yeah, that one's not being given to his mom, but he sort of loves it an indecent amount.

The fourth, though, the fourth makes Spencer want to squeeze the ever-loving crap out of Frank Iero. The fourth is one that should never have been caught, that even Spencer thinks he would have noticed. Except he didn't. The fourth is from less than an hour before Frank returned Spencer's Sidekick to him, while Frank and Mikey and Ray were engaged in a winner-takes-all game of poker and Gerard was trying to write and Bob was telling Spencer about the movie he'd been watching the other night—it had been so bad Bob had seen no choice but to share the pain. Bob had at one point run his toes over Spencer's, a gesture of affection but not much else, and Spencer had laughed a little bit. It tickled.

What he hadn't seen, what the camera is now showing him, was the way Bob looked at him while he was laughing, the mixture of fondness and affection and full-out love—Spencer can say it, he just chooses not to most of the time, it's special, and he doesn't like fucking with that. What he hadn't seen was the way Bob's hand sort of hovered over the back of his head as he laughed. It's the most intimate thing Spencer has ever seen in his entire life. He won't be giving it to his mom, either. Bob looks at it and says, "Huh."

Spencer says, "You're kind of the best boyfriend ever. Just so you're aware."

"Kind of?" Bob asks.

Spencer shrugs. Bob takes the Sidekick and hands it to Gerard, who is still writing and looks a little bit unsure of why he's been handed such an artifact of technology. Bob pulls Spencer to him, giving Spencer no option but to wrap his arm around Bob, fit himself to Bob's posture. Bob says, "Take a picture, Gee."

Gerard, bless him, doesn't hesitate. He just shoots and clicks. He gives the Sidekick back to Spencer who looks at the picture. Bob says, "Give that one to your mom."

Spencer nods. They both look so damn happy.

 

 

*

Spencer has never wanted to allow someone to push ink under the surface of his skin, to sit still while tiny injections of pigment that are not meant to interrupt epidermis are applied. Except that the time Bob suggested it to him, calm and only slightly interested, perhaps even mildly joking, has stuck with Spencer for months now. It is unfair that Bob would pick the one thing Spencer might want to carry on his body forever, might want other people to see, might know means something about them but, more accurately, means just about everything about him.

The band ends up having a three day break in October when the bus gets stuck in New Hampshire and no commercial flights are even so much as looking longingly at the runway. There's a tattoo parlor close to the hotel they're in. Spencer takes that as a sign of divine approval and treks through thirteen-foot snowbanks to get to the place. He has extremely cool snow boots.

He rolls up his right sleeve and points to the length of his forearm. "One here," he says, and then bends slightly, to pass his finger along the inside of his left thigh, "and one here."

"All right," the artist says. "You ever done this before?"

"Nope," Spencer says.

"Pain threshold?"

Not as high as Ryan's. "Higher than you're probably thinking."

Spencer seats himself on the chair and closes his eyes and chats with the guy about the Patriots and the storm and doesn't even much notice the sting of the process. Spencer has always focused more on results than processes. Well, other than the process of playing, which is something else entirely.

When he finishes, the artist—Gary—is looking at Spencer with vague approval in his eyes. Spencer doesn't need it, but he smiles all the same and tips well. Gary tells him how to care for it, how long it will take to heal, all the important information. Spencer bundles himself up and enjoys the way the cold numbs the slight throb of the new marks on his way back to the hotel.

 

 

*

It's late fall and Spencer's from Nevada so he spends the next month bundled up, and even during shows they're always in their button downs, their quasi-suits, so it's not until they hit San Antonio, where the weather is mild enough that Spencer wears a t-shirt rather than a sweatshirt to hop into his bunk, that the other guys—well, Ryan; Brendon's foraging for food and Jon's already asleep—see the tattoo. The arm one. The leg is still hidden by his pants.

Ryan takes the arm in his hand and turns it inside up so as to look more carefully at the art. He draws one finger along the center of the drumstick. "You didn't say you were thinking about— You didn't even say you had done this."

"Okay, well, it's sort of my skin."

Ryan looks up to catch Spencer's gaze. "I know that. It's just... Didn't it hurt? I would have— I mean, you could have asked one of us to go along."

Even being less resistant to it, Spencer isn't afraid of pain the way Ryan is. "I know. I know what I can ask you guys for. It's just that this was for me and I didn't feel the need to make one of you sit around and wait while I did it.

"For you," Ryan says softly.

Spencer says, "I play the drums."

"I know. And you love them. Maybe more than I love my guitar."

Spencer doubts it.

"But Bob also plays them."

Spencer raises his eyebrows. "Your point?"

"Don't, Spence, okay? Don't act like you just decided, without ever once mentioning it or thinking about it aloud, that this was something you had always wanted, or wanted with enough intensity to know it was the right decision. And you don't do things like this, permanent things, without that sort of beforehand consideration. So he said something, sparked the idea, I don't know."

Spencer thinks about saying, "Maybe I'm changing," but Spencer is the last thing Ryan needs to be unsure of, and Ryan is right, or close enough to right, so Spencer nods. "He brought up the idea. Mostly half-joking. But I thought about it. And I did like it with that much intensity. Because it can be about us, but it is about me, and about this band and it will always be about those things and why the hell wouldn't I want that sort of thing mapped out on my body?"

Ryan is silent for a long time, still holding the tattooed arm in his hand. Finally he says, "He chose something that was only about him by inference. Something that was...more important to you."

Spencer nods. "He's good about valuing me for the person I am."

Ryan tilts his head, purses his lips at this statement. Finally he says, "It's fucking hot."

"Don't think I'm going too metal for the band? Going to have to start thinking about finding yourselves someone a little bit cleaner cut?"

Ryan smiles. "Asshole."

Spencer agrees, "Yup."

 

 

*

Bob calls him at some point after a three minute interview with Fuse where Spencer was wearing a t-shirt and the interviewer actually noticed the new tattoo and spent some time cooing over Spencer rather than Ryan or Brendon. Spencer has perhaps gotten a little too used to being ignored for the Big Two. He says, before Bob can even say hi, "I was planning on saying something. In person. I forgot that sometimes people like to put me on national TV and then download it. It seems counterintuitive."

"I sprang a boner at your overwhelming hotness, Smith. What if I'd been in public, is all I'm saying? I mean, what if we'd been eating at some diner and they were showing Fuse—"

"You know many diners that show Fuse on their TVs?"

"—and I'm trying to order mashed potatoes and scaring the waitresses?"

"They put milk in mashed potatoes at diners."

"I'm totally serious here."

"Yeah, I can sense that."

Bob snorts. "What, were you gonna strip for me? Show me inch by inch? Take it off, baby. Take. It. Off."

"You have no idea what I'm capable of, Bryar."

"Some idea. Not that I'm opposed to further testing."

"You turn me on when you get all college-professor on me."

"You're late with your assignment, Mr. Smith. That will be one grade letter level."

"Hm, is there anything I can do to convince you not to drop the grade?"

"Perhaps talk to me ahead of time in future cases."

"Okay, see I was thinking more along the lines of a blowjob."

"That's because you're naughty."

Spencer laughs. Then he says, "I really didn't mean for you to find out this way."

"It was still pretty hot. Unbelievably fucking hot. Sort of like you. Can I tell people you're my boyfriend?"

"They wouldn't believe you, I'm too hot."

"So I can tell, right?"

"Go for it."

Bob laughs. "Careful the permissions you give, Mr. Smith."

"You can teach me caution in our next session, Professor Bryar."

"Be certain I will."

Spencer says, "I am always certain of you."

 

 

*

To make the whole Fuse-knowing-more-about-Spencer-than-Bob-did thing up to Bob, Spencer meets up with his tour in Oklahoma, for a quick--very quick--turn around visit in between his own shows. Spencer comes bearing gifts, even though he knows saving Bob's life has pretty much secured him a place in the minds and hearts of all the Chemically Dependents, as Brendon likes to call them, and Spencer has possibly accidentally said to Bob once in a conversation. Luckily, Bob was amused.

He brings coffee for Gerard and Mikey, the pre-ground beans from the Congo that are hellishly expensive, but evidently worth it. He brings Frank the copy of Full Metal Alchemist he knows Frank's been having trouble finding and which Spencer happened to pick up outside of Philadelphia. He brings Ray a new pair of headphones, because the asshole's been complaining about the sound-canceling features on his old ones, but is too cheap to just go get a better pair.

He brings Bob himself and a tattoo not even the other Panic boys know about, which had damned well better be enough. Their first go at sex is so frantic and messy—with Spencer all but dropping to his knees right at the door to the bus—that Bob doesn't notice until after. They manage—with a push from the ever-helpful Frank—to make it to the bunks, but just, and then Spencer's got his mouth on Bob's dick, even as he's saying, "Yeah, missed this part."

Bob drags him up when he's done, kisses himself off of Spencer's lips, flips Spencer over and pushes himself down for a taste of his own. Spencer buries his fingers in Bob's hair, controls the proceedings, and if Bob looks up and rolls his eyes once, Spencer can handle that, so long as he goes where Spencer's fingers tell him to go.

Afterward Bob slumps a little to the side for a few moments before muttering. "Okay, we're a little overdressed at this point."

Spencer agrees. He shimmies out of his shirt and then his pants. They're only to his knees when Bob says, "Whoa, that wasn't on Fuse."

"Yeah, I'm not blowing Gideon Yago."

"Yago's MTV."

"The fact that you know that cracks me up."

"So do you, you're just being difficult."

"Oh, is that what I'm being?"

Bob doesn't even answer, just pulls Spencer's pants all the way off and presses his leg to the side so that he can peruse the second tattoo at length. It is a quarter note, the most common on a drummer's sheet. The stem, however, is a thermometer, an old-fashioned one, with the mercury resting at a point of 1231.

Bob says, softly, "That's quite some fever."

Spencer looks up, at the top of the bunk, and responds, "The kind you can't sweat out."

"Really more the kind you were dead from about 1100 degrees earlier." Bob rises up over Spencer, takes his gaze back and kisses him so long and slow Spencer forgets what the hell it is they're kissing about. When Bob has made his point he pulls back and takes his own clothes off, folding them before setting them aside. Spencer looks away in order to grin. Bob lines himself up against Spencer's back, wrapping his leg over Spencer's thigh.

He says, "I would never have asked for something like that. Something specific. About me."

"I know," Spencer says.

"What if—"

"I'll still want this on my skin."

"You're kind of young—"

"You know better."

Bob nuzzles at the back of Spencer's neck. "Yeah. I guess I do."

"I wanted it. I want you."

"Yes," Bob says. "Fuck, yes."

 

 

*

Spencer gets homesick. Ryan misses his mom, but not much else; Brendon has trouble being back in spaces that he wasn't allowed into for a while, and Jon has a never-ending wanderlust. Spencer, on occasion, wants to talk football with his dad—the only guy he'll go there for, except maybe Bob or Ryan, but neither has ever asked it of him—and help his mom run errands. He wants to drink the iced cinnamon coffee from the local coffee shack that's been there thirty-two years and is largely unbothered by the corporate giants. He wants to watch the geckos that hang out in his mom's rock garden. He wants his own bed.

Ryan's good about knowing when it's happening. He'll call Spencer's mom and say, "Hi, Mrs. Smith," and she'll say, "Ryan Ross, stop making me sound like I'm old," and he'll say, "Yes, mom," and, "Spence misses the geckos."

His mom will tell him all about the geckos—she's named all of them by their not-very-different markings so that Spencer can know what she's talking about—and about her Stitch 'n Bitch—Spencer's known those women since before he could talk—and say, "If you wanna come home, baby—"

"Mom."

"I'm just saying."

Spencer loves her for saying it.

Sometimes Ryan will call Spencer's dad and say, "Hello, Mr. Smith," and he'll say, "Mr. Ross," which always causes Ryan to look down and smile wistfully. Ryan will say, "Spencer's kinda pissed off at the NFL right now," and hand over the phone to Spencer, who is then generally in the position of trying to figure out what has gone on all season. His dad mostly pretends that Spencer's got it together. What Ryan doesn't usually do is hijack Spencer's phone, scroll through the contacts, press seven and say, "Bryar?"

Spencer would wrestle the phone from him, but he's slightly in awe of Ryan's audacity just at that moment, and it paralyzes him.

"Spencer's homesick."

Spencer pointedly shows Ryan his middle finger and says, "I don't tell your secrets, you complete twat."

"Yeah, okay," Ryan says to Bob and hands Spencer the phone.

Spencer says, "You can't listen to a thing he says, he's a habitual liar. You've seen our interviews, you know."

"I'm in South Carolina and Chicago is cold this time of year and this early spring shit is bullshit," Bob says.

"I like warm weather."

"That's because you're a pussy."

"And you're a vegan, but I don't go around calling you names."

"You so do, Smith."

Spencer kind of does, so he lets it go.

"Hey," Bob says. He says it casually, but Spencer has learned to read when Bob is prying without making it seem like he's prying.

"I'm just tired. Tour tired." That's the expression they all use for the weariness that comes with always being confused at to where you are and thrown by the sleeping schedule—or lackthereof—that tours demand.

"I'm fucking homesick," Bob tells him. "I miss my mom. She has good stories. I know all the guy's stories. And they repeat them."

Spencer nods his head in sympathy, thinking Bob will figure the sentiment out. Bob is silent for a while. "I know that I'm not Ross and I haven't got this bazillion year history with you, and that you're sort of the guy who doesn't complain, who listens to the complaining, I get that. But you could tell me something. Anything. If that was... Look, Ross seemed to think it was a plan of some sort."

Spencer doesn't want to tell Bob that Ryan often has really, really bad plans when it comes to personal relationships. Granted, that's mostly more in his case than in Spencer's, but it still makes Spencer a little bit wary. He says, "My mom makes non-pareils around this time of year."

"Those chocolate thingies?"

"The mint ones. The pastel ones. Y'know, for spring."

"Nevada doesn't have spring."

"She likes to pretend," Spencer says softly.

"That's cool," Bob says, his voice pretty soft in return.

"And my dad does the spring cleaning, because he's kind of a neat freak, and he plays The Wall on the stereo system you can hear all the way through the house. I can't hear that album anymore without smelling Pine Sol."

"You know you love it. You were totally the kid getting high on glue in the back of the class, weren't you, Smith?"

Spencer laughs. "I was a straight A student, asshole."

"Really?"

"Mostly cause I took easy classes."

"Uh huh."

"I'm really fine."

"I gotta tell you, Smith, I think what you are is homesick. Ross knows how to call'em."

Ryan just knows Spencer, but that's neither here nor there. Bob admits, "I kinda like hearing this part. This part of you."

Spencer worries at the threads that are beginning to fray in the knee of his jeans.

"I could tell you some of mine for some of yours. Information trade."

Spencer says, "It's not that I don't want to tell you."

"You're just out of practice. I know."

"What are your mom's stories about?"

"One answer for another," Bob negotiates. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Her customers. People who eat in restaurants are fucked up. I say that as a restaurant-going person. What's your room look like?"

Spencer closes his eyes and tells Bob what appears behind his lids.

 

 

*

Bob shows up in Tuscaloosa, which is warm for this time of year, at least compared to Chicago. Spencer says, "Don't you play in a band?"

"I have sixteen hours to get you to cheer the fuck up before I've gotta be back on a plane, so you're gonna have to work with me here."

Spencer says, "I know we're both young, but I don't think either of us is gonna last that long."

Bob rolls his eyes. "Jesus, Smith, you have a dirty mind. I brought you presents."

"You think that's gonna help clean it up any?"

Bob pushes Spencer onto the couch. "The others hiding?"

Ryan answered the door when Bob knocked and didn't seem all that surprised, so Spencer suspects it's more an issue of giving them some space. "On a four-man bus, no less. I have talented bandmates."

"Mm. Here." Bob roots through his bag and pulls out a bottle of Pine Sol. Spencer blinks at it for a second and then laughs so hard he's doubled over with it, arms folded protectively against his torso.

"Mission accomplished, maybe I can catch an earlier flight." Bob makes like he's getting up to go and Spencer pulls him down, kisses him through the laughter.

When he can, Spencer gasps, "You said presents. Plural."

"Greedy bitch." Bob laughs against the side of Spencer's mouth.

"Just the way you like me."

"Point." Bob pulls away just enough to reach a hand into his bag. He comes up with a bag of mint non-pareils, all soft blues and greens and yellows and pinks. Spencer looks at the bag for a moment.

"They're not your moms, because since I've never actually spoken to her, I felt kinda stupid just calling her up and being all, 'yeah, could you send me some non-pareils, I swear they'll make it to your son—"

"She'd have liked it," Spencer says softly, taking the bag from Bob.

Bob smiles. "Next time. They _are_ gourmet."

Spencer opens the bag and pulls one from inside, placing it on his tongue. He lets it sit for a moment, just long enough for the body of it to melt a bit, the sprinkles dissolving down into the sugar. Then he kisses Bob, slow and sweeter than usual, literally and otherwise.

"Mm," Bob says.

"Good," Spencer says.

"Yeah."

Spencer takes his time making out, not something he's generally all about, except that Bob would have called his mom, and that's deserving of something just a little less than ordinary. When Bob's melted against him, as submissive as the non-pareils, only then does Spencer slide off the couch, pull Bob's jeans down around his thighs. His mouth is already a little sticky, and it makes it easy, natural, to just slow things down, easy to swallow a little when his lips are nearly kissing Bob's pelvis.

Bob moans, "Fuck, Smith, so fucking good."

Spencer says, "Yeah," around his cock, waiting until Bob has come and then come back to him to say, "You sorta deserve it."

Bob nods lazily. "I'm a pretty good boyfriend."

Spencer grins. Bob tugs him up onto the couch and flips over onto him. Says, "Wonder if those things make you taste minty-fresh."

"Only one way to find out."

 

 

*

It's an after-party and Spencer and Bob have an agreement about after-parties that involves them generally going nowhere near each other unless one of the other guys is present. Spencer doesn't think they spark as hard as Ryan and Brendon do, or even Frank and Mikey, but those two are in each other's bands. It's not even that Spencer really gives a shit whether anyone knows—all the important people do anyway. He cares about Ryan having to give up the success of the band for Spencer's personal sexual choices, even if Ryan wouldn't say a damn word. He cares about having the press all over him, the feeding frenzy that he knows would leave him venomous and burnt around the edges. It sort of sucks, though, being in the same town, the same _room_ with Bob and having to accept that he has to either pull Jon in as backup or bring the monkey twins along or just allow Bob to drag Mikey across the room. Mikey drags well.

Jon is with Pete, so that takes him right out of the equation, since Spencer doesn't trust Pete as far as he can throw him. Maybe not even that far. Spencer thinks he could probably chuck him a fair distance. He's looking for Brendon and Ryan--who are assholes and have gone AWOL--when Bob finds him, Gerard at his side. Spencer smiles at Gerard. Gerard says, "You're so utterly easy, Smith."

"I've been abandoned to the fates and then rescued in a timely and suave manner. I do not concede the point that my gratitude has been easily earned."

Bob snickers. Gerard says, "What, Wentz and Walker won't let you in their clique?"

"Something like that," Spencer says as breezily as he can. Bob narrows his eyes at him but doesn't say anything. Bob can be kind of quiet at times.

"What say we become a roving gang and hunt down my brother and his hapless boyfriend before the MTV cameras find them?"

"Mikey can take care of himself," Bob says.

Gerard rocks on his feet. Admits, "I know." He sounds a little bit bereft.

Spencer gets that. "Wanna get the hell out of here?"

Bob's already at the door in his head, Spencer knows. Spencer can't stand around with Jon and Pete constantly on the periphery of his vision anymore. Jon's a big boy, and that's all fine and well, but Spencer doesn't want to watch him making decisions that might very well lead to the implosion of things Spencer spends his days struggling to keep intact.

"Fuck, yes," Gerard says. "I promised I'd find Ray, though."

"He's recovering on the balcony."

Gerard goes off even as Spencer laughs. "Jesus, who tonight?"

"Miranda Lambert."

"Yeah?"

"That's the kinda shit I couldn't come up with."

"Yeah, okay. That's pretty hot."

Bob shrugs. "I guess, if you're into that sort of thing."

Spencer's boyfriend might be the gayest person he's ever met, including Ryan. Bob looks like he wants to say something but isn't sure how to say it. He still hasn't figured it out when Gerard brings back a very smiley Ray and says, "Let's blow this popsicle stand."

"Do people seriously still say that?" Spencer asks.

"Shut up, young whippersnapper."

"Whatever you say, gramps."

 

 

*

They go to a diner, because Gerard has declared himself in need of coffee and Spencer sort of likes being an ass and eating cheeseburgers in front of Bob at one in the morning. It pisses Bob off, which generally turns Bob on, and Spencer knows which side of the bread his butter's on. Spencer will admit that if Ray weren't there, he would totally let Bob in on the chocolate cream pie.

Bob charms the waitress into bringing him a bagel with peanut butter and honey—his mom has trained into him some bizarre waitress-charming gene—and eats it looking fairly zen, as he always does around Ray. Also, Spencer likes the taste of peanut butter and honey. He would almost feel one-upped.

Gerard asks, "How's Miss Lambert?"

Ray says, "Stop being an objectifying dick."

"Yeah," Bob says.

Gerard looks indignant. "I just meant--"

Ray laughs. Then he turns to Spencer and asks, "You and Walker having a fight?"

Spencer almost chokes on the pie, which would probably serve him right at a table of supposed vegans. "No, Jon and I are fine."

"Because you were sorta avoiding him," Gerard says, and Spencer thinks, "is it really not enough that _my_ band gangs up on me?"

Bob just nods. Traitor. Spencer pokes a little violently at his largely unoffensive pie. "Not Jon."

"Pete?" Gerard asks, and raises both eyebrows.

"He's gonna fuck up my band." Spencer tries to sound neither petulant nor terrified.

"Your band does an okay job of that all on its own." Ray pats Spencer's shoulder.

"Pete's not so dangerous," Bob says. "You've just got to make him sit still. Seems like Walker's got that under control."

"Dangerous enough," Spencer says.

There's a long silence before Bob asks, "Is this still about the Ryan thing?"

Spencer glares at Bob. Gerard and Ray are actually in this conversation. In the end, though, he says, "He fucked with Ryan and Brendon. Now he's fucking with Jon."

Gerard wraps his hands around his newly-refilled mug. "Ryan and Brendon, really?"

"Ryan probably deserves a goodly dose of blame for that one," Spencer says, because despite hating it about himself, he's mostly a fair person.

"Jesus fuck," Gerard murmurs, and sips at his coffee.

Bob says, "According to Mikey and Patrick, who are both completely unsure of what to do with this situation, Pete's pretty sure Jon's fucking with him."

"That's close to the stupidest thing Wentz has ever said. Jon doesn't even fuck with shit when given engraved invitations to." All three of them look curious at that, but all Spencer says is, "Jon fixes shit. He's better than me at it."

Bob frowns at that. "Maybe he's just given easier opportunities."

Spencer rolls his eyes. "My point is—"

"Yeah, Walker's not the one at fault, but what if neither of them are? What if this is, y'know, valid?"

Spencer tries not to look at Bob like he's grown a third eye or something.

"I'm just saying, people were sort of suspicious about us, too."

"That's because they thought you were committing statutory. Which okay, you were, but only because I'm a lying asshole."

"Spencer." Bob knocks his feet into Spencer's under the table.

"You should talk with Walker," Gerard says.

"As a place to start, at least," Ray chimes in.

"You people are so not my band."

All three of them just look at him. Spencer eats the rest of the pie, ordering another piece even though he's not hungry. Sometimes one has to suffer for credible revenge.

 

 

*

Spencer calls a band meeting. He's tired of staring out the window so he says, "We need to talk."

Brendon looks guilty, which makes Spencer wonder if he's actually done anything. Brendon tends to be afraid of getting caught living at certain times. Jon hefts Queen—Jon and Brendon call her Killer, but Spencer and Ryan like the more refined element of her name, feel it fits her more—and moves to sprawl on the floor closer to Spencer so that she can continue using him as a kitty jungle gym. Ryan doesn't do a damn thing, since he has his earphones on and can't hear.

"Ryan!" Spencer shouts. The other two get in on the action, but it's only when Brendon finally risks a tap to Ryan's knee that they get any reaction.

He lifts a phone. "Sorry, what?"

"You're going to go deaf and I'm going to be the one to have to explain it to thousands of grieving teenagers," Spencer says. "Oh, and we're having a band meeting, if you'd like to join."

Ryan turns off his iPod and sets the headphones aside, coming over to sit next to Spencer. "Something wrong?"

"Jon has to tell us what the deal is with Pete," Spencer declares.

"Does he really?" Brendon asks.

"Yes," Spencer says, trying his best to sound level-headed rather than slightly desperate.

Jon sits up, Queen tumbling into his lap and looking up quite indignantly. He squashes her nose in response. "What do you want to know?"

Now that the moment has come, all the things in Spencer aren't words they're just frantic, zinging emotion. Finally he says, "He keeps hurting my band." It's not exactly a question.

Jon seems to get what he needs from it. "He's not hurting it now. He didn't mean to, then. He thought— He thought—"

"I was real," Ryan says softly. "For him."

Brendon snarls and Queen makes a small sound of alarm. Brendon looks miserable with repentance, but doesn't try to touch her. Ryan's taught him too well.

"Does he think that about you?" Spencer asks. It's a careful question, since Jon seems like he might be a little bit invested, even if he's currently pulling Brendon to him and getting to work soothing him.

Jon says, "He wants to. When he's not busy doing his best to fuck things up for himself."

Ryan helps with, "He doesn't understand that love is more than sex. Or, he does understand, but he has no experience to, y'know, prove it to him. And I think Jon's holding out." He throws a questioning glance Jon's way.

Jon nods. "He has to understand the other stuff first. He _has_ to, or I won't get to be the real thing either. And I sort of... He gets to you. Slowly. He— Look, I know Spencer, okay, I know what he did and how that scared you and I know, Brendon that you— Well, I know. And I'm still sort of the new guy and you got a cat for me and I probably shouldn't be asking for anything else, but he thinks I'll choose you guys over him and I probably would, is the worst part and if it didn't have to be a choice, if I didn't have to—"

"I wouldn't do that," Brendon says. "Make you choose. I've done enough."

Jon squeezes Brendon until he makes a small, involuntary squeak of distress. "You're good, Brendon. Okay?"

Brendon sighs and buries his face against Jon's chest. Spencer forces himself not to wince. Jon sort of deserves to actually get what he wants every once in a while. He shakes his head. "I'm not gonna make you choose, either."

Jon looks like Atlas just came around to take the world back. "That's. That's good."

"I'll even try being a little more civil," Spencer tells him.

"He doesn't want to be the guy who ruins everything," Jon says. "He really doesn't."

Spencer would feel better about that if he just weren't, rather than not wanting to be, but Jon really does fix things amazingly well, and Spencer figures he's got to have faith sometimes. He nods. "All right."

Brendon snuffles at Jon's chest. Ryan looks down and smiles.

 

 

*

Ryan buys Spencer the Interview issue upon seeing it on the stands during one of his and Brendon's runs into town for frozen cookie dough and other cabin necessities. The thought is sweet, and Spencer even makes some of the cookies for Ryan—sticks them in the oven with the timer on and everything—to show his appreciation. Then he locks himself in his room to wail at the fates privately for an hour before calling his boyfriend and demanding, "No more of this, do you hear me? No more."

"What did I do?" Bob asks. It's kind of reasonable of him, because last time they spoke they probably ended with fairly customary sign offs, such as Spencer's, "Tell your mom I said hi," and Bob's, "Your mom jokes are not classy," and Spencer's, "I actually meant that," and Bob's, "Whatever, Smith, whatever."

"You can't just be taking photographs like this whenever you damn well please, you complete dickface. It's fine for you to be as hot as you are, okay? I say fine, better than fine when I'm the one benefiting from the unholy levels of your hotness, but when you're just throwing it this way and that and then not following up because you happen to be hundreds of fucking miles away? No. That's inappropriate boyfriend behavior, Robert."

"That was a good shoot for all of us, don't you think?" Bob sounds pleased.

"I hate you," Spencer says, with a plain-spoken quality that generally gets people's attention.

Not Bob. "Turnabout is fair play, you randomly-pointing, tight-brown-shirt wearing, man-purse carrying piece of ass. Also, it's not as if I don't plan to make it up to you."

"Oh, you do, do you?"

"I am a man who plans ahead, Spencer Smith."

Spencer has to agree. Bob is. "Tell me of these plans."

"That would ruin the surprise."

"Yes, but I have the best picture you've ever taken and my dick both right here, and I would like you to help me put those two together."

"Oh no, you're going to wait."

"Bob," Spencer says, in a very firm tone of voice. Or perhaps a whine. Either way.

"Or you could use your own imagination, tell me what you come up with."

"I bet every one of your bandmembers wanted to fuck you at that shoot."

"You have a dirty mind, Smith."

"I bet Mikey wanted to throw you over those fucking thighs of his and hold you there while Frank took care of business."

Bob's breath quickens. Spencer shoves his hand inside his jeans. "I bet Gerard wanted to fuck up your hair with both his hands, wanted to press you against the nearest wall and swallow every last inch of you, then look up to see how you were liking it. Gerard would be into that, seeing how he's pleasing someone. He's such a crowd whore."

"Spencer," Bob gasps.

Spencer pulls on his cock. Hard. "I bet even Ray wanted in on it, wanted your mouth, those lips."

"Ray's straight." Bob doesn't sound convinced.

"Nobody's that straight," Spencer tells him, looking down at the picture, giving another pull. He holds onto the phone through his orgasm, makes every sound into the mouthpiece.

After a few minutes, Bob asks weakly, " _I_ can't be doing stuff like this?"

"I guess I can forgive you in this instance," Spencer tells him generously.

Bob says, "You're a good boyfriend like that."

 

 

*

"You sent actual invitations?" Bob asks, and Spencer can hear the rustling of him pulling said invitation out of its envelope.

"It's a party," Spencer says. Also, Brendon hadn't shut up for days about the circus motif invites he'd seen at the paper store and for all that Brendon talks and even whines, he doesn't really ask for much.

"We'll barely be back in the states."

"I know, but I moved the party back a day so that you would be back in the states and would have had about twelve hours to sleep it off."

"His birthday's not the 13th?"

"Twelfth."

"How'd he feel about that?"

"He's just excited that my mom promised him strawberry shortcake and people are going to come around to see him turn twenty." Spencer rubs a hand over his face. Brendon's a little hard to explain to people who don't know the history, and Spencer isn't sure he can open himself up enough to give Bob Brendon's past.

Spencer hears a, "What the fuck?" and then Frank's saying, "These are cool invitations, Smith."

"Brendon liked them."

"Is he really only going to be twenty, or is that something you tell your fans? You can tell us."

Spencer rolls his eyes. "Iero, give me back to my boyfriend."

"No, 'cause he's gonna tell you all these reasons why we shouldn't come to the party, but we're totally coming. It's been forever since we were at a party in someone's backyard."

Spencer wonders idly if inviting his boyfriend's whole band was a mistake. Frank says, "Oh, hey, wait, Gee has a question."

"Of course he does," Spencer mutters as he waits for the phone to be passed.

"Hey Spence."

"Hi, Gee," Spencer says, because at least Gerard has manners.

"I know this is sort of rude—"

Or maybe not.

"—but look, I was sort of gonna use that day there to see someone—"

"It's fine, Gerard, if you can't come."

"—no, I was just wondering if I could bring a date."

Spencer blinks. Bob has mentioned a boyfriend, and there have been times when Gerard has disappeared to go talk on the phone or laughed for minutes on end at his email, smiling in a way that no camera has ever captured. Spencer has never really considered the reality of Gerard having a boyfriend who's not a member of My Chem or Panic or even FOB. It seems...bizarre. "Uh, yeah. Of course. Is he a vegan, too?"

"Omnivore."

"Definitely bring him, then."

"Thank you," Gerard says, quite formally, and Spencer hears the phone being passed off again.

"Hey," Bob says.

"You're all coming, then?"

"Well, we haven't seen Ray since this morning, but it's a fairly safe assumption."

Spencer smiles at the floor even though Bob isn't there to see how easy Spencer is being. "Brendon'll like that."

"Brendon will, huh?"

He really will, but, "I might not mind it, either."

"Generous of you."

"I'm that kinda guy."

Bob laughs.

 

 

*

"Spencer! Speeeencer!" Brendon hits Spencer running and Spencer would totally be taken down by it except that he has become used to this sort of attack and rolls with it, literally, twirling a little bit with the momentum of Brendon's direct hit. "Gerard totally got me JC Chasez for my birthday!"

Spencer's known Brendon for a fairly long time and he mostly lives with him, but he really has nothing for that, but, "What?"

Ryan, on the other hand, has a lackadaisical and—in Spencer's opinion—somewhat brilliant, "I will have you know, Urie, I am not the type to be made jealous by foundationless bragging and flights of fancy."

Brendon pouts. "Be nice to me; it's my birthday."

"That was yesterday," Ryan says. Spencer gives Ryan a Look.

"Besides," Brendon tells them, "I'm so telling you guys the truth and you're going to feel like complete asshats when I prove it to you."

Spencer runs his mind back over the conversation and asks, "Wait, did you say Gerard got you Chasez for your birthday?"

Brendon nods. "That's a super good gift. I don't think any of you guys are gonna be able to outdo it."

"Holy shit," Spencer breathes.

"Spence?" Ryan asks.

"I sort of told Gerard he could bring his boyfriend to the party. You know, because they just got back from Europe, and evidently they were supposed to meet up and he doesn't see him very often—"

"Wait, he's not my present?" Brendon's pouting again.

Ryan kicks his foot. Then asks, "Gerard Way is dating JC Chasez?"

It explains why the My Chem boys don't talk about it. Ever. It's also possibly the most bizarre thing in the history of bizarre. But if Gerard's here then Bob's probably not far behind so Spencer doesn't have time to consider all the ins and outs of this latest newsflash. He asks Brendon, "Did you actually say hi, or did you just gawk and run?"

"Um."

Spencer sighs. He would say, "raised by wolves," but Brendon's sort of sensitive about his parents, and this is Brendon's day. "C'mon."

Gerard grins at seeing Spencer and catches him up in a hug as soon as he's near enough to be caught. Brendon's next but Gerard just shakes Ryan's hand. Jon's clearly been chatting with him for a bit, so Spencer suspects that greeting hug has already taken place. Gerard says, "Spencer, Brendon, Ryan, this is JC."

"Spencer says you're not my birthday present," Brendon says, even as he smiles and shakes JC's hands.

"Oh my G-d, Brendon," Spencer can't help it, it just comes out of his mouth.

JC grins though and says, "No, but I brought you a good one. And Gerard got you something from Europe that he won't tell me about, so I'm betting sex toy."

Ryan's eyes might fly open at that. Gerard smacks JC's arm. "There are parents around."

"I spoke in my indoor voice," JC tells him. Gerard looks at Spencer, clearly seeking an island of sanity.

Spencer asks, "Bob's coming, right?"

Gerard says, "I hate you."

JC says, "Happy birthday, Brendon."

Brendon grins.

 

 

*

Bob shows shortly after Gerard and Spencer says, "You're late."

Bob says, "I'm so not," even as he pulls his Sidekick out of his pocket to check. He shows it to Spencer, "See, not. The invitations said three."

It's two fifty-eight. Spencer says, "Fine," clearly not appeased. Then he says, "Gerard dates JC Chasez."

Bob nods. "He does."

Spencer says, "That's kinda weird. I mean, even weirder than your pedo tendencies."

"I didn't know, Smith."

"Uh huh," Brendon says, coming up from behind Spencer. "Why Bob, did you bring me flowers?"

"They're for Mrs. Smith, monkey, hands off."

Brendon makes a face. "It's my birthday."

"And it's the first time I'm meeting my boyfriend's mom."

"You can't impress her, she already knows you took her baby in his tender years."

Bob pales.

"Brendon, you know how we get to make fun of Ryan because he's in our band but nobody else does?" Spencer asks.

"Yeah."

"Bob's my boyfriend. Not yours."

"And?"

Spencer swats Brendon, who dances away, calling, "You'd better have gotten me something good, Bryar!"

"Can I meet your mom now, before I totally lose all nerve and have to leave with my tail between my legs?"

"You have a tail?"

"Smith."

"Hey." Spencer leans up a little, kisses Bob. "She's the most easy-going person I know. Including you. Okay? Ignore Brendon. He's just happy and he gets a little reckless when he's allowed that sort of thing full-on." Spencer is so going to smack him upside the head when it's not his birthday anymore.

He takes Bob further into his house, to the kitchen where his mom is putting the finishing touches on the strawberry shortcake. She looks up and opens her mouth, probably to say, "Is there something you needed?" but upon seeing Bob she just grins for a full moment. He says, "Hi Mrs. Smith. I brought these," and holds out a full array of pansies, azaleas and irises.

"Of course you did. Spencer said you had manners."

Bob looks at Spencer. Spencer tells his mom a lot of things he probably wouldn't say directly to Bob. She comes around the counter and takes the flowers, setting them aside so that she can wrap her arms around Bob, kiss his cheek. Bob flushes under the attention, but allows it patiently. She says, "Spence, give us a moment."

"Mom—"

She looks over at him and he says, "Yes, ma'am," and goes off to see if the other My Chem guys have arrived. Ray is giving Brendon a piggy-back ride—seemingly consensually—and JC and Ryan are talking to each other, both of them with hands flying in all directions. Gerard looking on with a smile that Spencer doesn't see him wear all that often. Mikey has himself folded over Jon, who looks just fine with that, is clearly arguing good-naturedly over something with Frank. Spencer's trying to figure out what conversation he wants to get in on when Bob comes to stand beside him. Spencer says, "Well, she didn't eat you. That's of the good."

"I make the times when you can't help easier, huh?"

"She never shuts up, I swear."

"Don't disrespect your mother."

"She's my mother, Bryar, I'm pretty sure I'm the person who knows where that line is."

"She put our picture in the bedroom. In the middle of the ones with your sisters and their boyfriends."

"I know. She told me."

"Spence." Bob says the nickname softly.

"I've missed you," Spencer tells him, not sure he can handle hearing whatever Bob's about to say, building up to with that whispered address.

"Yeah." Bob pulls Spencer in front of him, wraps his arms over Spencer's stomach. "Yeah."

 

 

*

Brendon's sister Caddie shows up late, but Caddie is always late and she brings homemade cherry pie with her, which is also one of Brendon's favorites, so Spencer forgives her. Since Spencer planned the party for the thirteenth, Brendon's family held a dinner for him the night before. Notably, the band wasn't invited. When Ryan brings Brendon over in the morning, he's still smiling like he might cut himself on his own teeth if he relaxes. Jon has to tickle him for nearly half an hour straight before he bounds back on Jon, remembering why he's there, who's there with him.

Caddie gets invited because she's never given up on Brendon, and Spencer knows for a fact that she used to help him out a bit, bring him dinners on occasion, that sort of thing, when none of the rest of them would. Caddie gets invited because Brendon doesn't tense up, doesn't act like he's on a fucking stage without the benefit of the music when she's around. Brendon takes her around and introduces her to everyone and she's polite about shaking hands and smiling and acting like the names are just names but when Brendon flits off to tell Ryan a secret, Spencer watches her talk music with Ray, early My Chem music, no less. He's not terribly shocked. One of the reasons Caddie never gave up on Brendon is because she could always hear his talent, knew the scene well enough to know his dreams weren't just a phase of pissing into the wind.

Spencer gets her alone later, says, "Thanks for coming."

Caddie tenses up and says, "He's my baby brother." She looks so much like Brendon when he's defending Ryan, Spencer has to blink the vision away.

"I didn't mean it like that. I just meant, you know, I didn't invite the others and it could have been awkward and—"

"It's not that I don't love my family, but I'm not proud of how they've treated him."

Spencer just nods, because if he opens his mouth, he's going to say something unforgivable.

"So, Ray Toro."

Spencer turns to Caddie. "I thought you were a nice Mormon girl."

"As far as you know, I still am."

Spencer smirks. "Unattached and straight, so far as I know. Go with G-d."

"I always do."

Spencer finds Bob, who is very busy holding Brendon upside down and saying, quite patiently, "You gonna stop trying to figure out what's in the boxes?"

"Never!" Brendon declares. "Never! It's my birthday and you can't—"

Bob swings Brendon back and forth a little. "You were saying?"

"Can I have some cake?"

Bob laughs at that, setting Brendon gently on the ground, head-first. "Go ask Mrs. Smith."

"She's gonna make you call her mom. She hates Mrs. Smith." Brendon runs off to do as told.

Bob admits to Spencer, "She's already tried."

Spencer was pretty sure she would have. "I think I may have just set Brendon's sister on Ray."

"You're a shark, Smith." Bob grins. "I thought he had bunches of siblings."

"He does," Spencer says, but makes it clear with his tone that he doesn't want to talk about it.

Bob says, "Okay. Think he's gonna get his way with the cake?"

"My mom sucks at saying no to him."

"So we should get in on that, before Mikey totally eats us under the table."

"Mikey?"

"Don't let the skinny fool you."

Yeah, Ryan can sometimes outlast him, Brendon and Jon put together. "C'mon," Spencer says, and takes Bob's hand.

 

 

*

Panic has a rule. Spencer can't remember when it was instituted, or if they even really talked about it ever, but it's definitely a rule. Birthday and Christmas presents are all under a hundred dollars. It was easy to get carried away when those first checks came in, but even when the gifts were awesome they were a little surface, and Spencer thinks it was Ryan who finally said to him, "Just get me something that makes me think of you. Of something. . .real. Okay?"

One of Spencer's sisters has a friend who runs a silk-screening operation out of her house, so Spencer has made Brendon a t-shirt with a picture of Queen and the words, "I love pussy," superimposed over the image.

Brendon puts it on immediately, trusting his still-considerable mound of cake to Ryan with a, "Don't let anybody eat this," while stripping off his current t-shirt and pulling the new one on. Ryan takes a bite. Spencer makes an effort not to catch his mom's eye. He's probably so going to hell.

Spencer knows Ryan's real gift is the song he home-recorded and then uploaded to Brendon's Sidekick for whenever one of the band members calls him, but for party purposes, Brendon rips the paper off an expansion pack to Apples to Apples, which Brendon has made them play so many times that none of them have the capability of coming up with new adjectives for any of the nouns. Brendon squeals and makes dire promises to make them all play later—"Fresh meat," he says, with a particularly carnivorous gleam in his eye, leveled mostly at Frank.

Jon gets him a bright pink gumball machine, because Brendon is forever buying himself Skittles or M&Ms or Sprees or Sweetarts or any other kind of little candy and then losing them all over the bus, so that the rest of the guys are still finding them months later in spots that, to be honest, make Spencer pretty suspicious. Spencer doesn't think this is going to help the problem, but Brendon looks so taken by the contraption that it's entirely possible it might.

Frank has gotten him a paint-by-numbers kit. Brendon laughs so hard he falls over. Ryan pelts his napkin at Frank. Spencer's entirely sure he doesn't want to know.

Gerard's European gift is not a sex toy, it's a stein. Brendon says, "I don't drink."

Gerard says, "Wait till the coffee addiction kicks in. Then you're gonna love that thing. It's going to replace Ross in your affections."

"Really?" JC asks, face imperturbable.

Gerard says, "Um, no?" with a cross of something hopeful and abashed on his face. JC laughs and kisses him. Then he hands Brendon his gift, which is the complete collection of Radiohead's sheet music adapted for keyboard. Adapted by JC, that is, who clearly went through and did all the extra markings. Brendon is actually silent for a couple of minutes, running through the pages and Spencer watches as JC fidgets a little, says, "Obviously, I mean, we hadn't met, and all I really had to go on is what Gee says and your concert video and CD and—"

Brendon looks at Ryan apologetically. "I'm going to have to cheat on you with Gerard's boyfriend, now."

Solemnly, Ryan says, "I understand."

"Oh," JC breathes. "You like it, then."

Gerard runs his knuckles over JC's thigh, and JC leans into him a little bit.

"How long did this take you?" Brendon asks, still clearly a little awed.

"Not too long, I mean, I wanted to play the stuff anyway and from there it was just figuring out the specifics, so," JC shrugs. "I had fun."

"It's okay that you weren't my present," Brendon tells him earnestly. JC's grin is a wild thing, and Spencer sees where maybe Gerard started looking and just couldn't stop.

Mikey gives Brendon an Aveda Hair Care Package and Brendon sticks his tongue out at Mikey even though Brendon has a deep, abiding love of things that make his hair smell like trees. Ray is peering somewhat thoughtfully at the Aveda gel while Brendon opens his gift, which are tickets to a Morrissey concert. Ray says, "Don't schedule anything for that night, yeah?"

Clearly Ray doesn't know the rule, but Spencer totally forgives him, because Brendon is almost gold with happiness and Ryan is looking at the tickets like if he touches them they might crumble, blow away as all things divine must. Ray laughs a little and eats some more cake which Spencer could tell him is a mistake because the next minute he's got two armfuls of Brendon, but Ray takes it in stride, not even choking. Spencer is totally going to be Ray Toro when he grows up.

Bob mutters something about Ray being an asshole, but Spencer says, "Don't worry, he'll love yours," and Brendon does love the endless miles of contraption meant to be strewn about and worked into the bus's structure for the sake of Queen's roaming and playing pleasure. Spencer says, "We'll have to get him untangled from it more than her."

"Or you could just leave him," Bob says. Spencer's boyfriend is an evil genius. Which is, of course, why Spencer stays with him.

Caddie gives Brendon a bootleg copy of Name Taken's last show. Brendon gapes at her. "How'd you—"

"Not in any way I'm going to divulge to my younger brother."

Ray eyes her appreciatively. Spencer's mom has put together a scrapbook of the four of them, from the times Spencer's parents have come out to the shows and the times the guys have been in town, with a definite focus on Brendon. Spencer looked through it the night before, saw the things Brendon would see that his mom wouldn't necessarily. Saw the way Jon ends up in more and more pictures, the way Ryan can be found closer and closer to Brendon as time progresses.

Brendon flips through it, but Spencer also sees the way this is something he wants to spend time with, savor when there aren't people watching them. Instead he hugs Spencer's mom tight and says, "Thank you for my party. Thank you."

She hugs back and kisses his forehead and says, "Anytime, sweetie."

Spencer catches the way Gerard's eyes are a little bit fierce, the way Frank seems a little coiled. Caddie's looking in another direction altogether. Without pulling back, Brendon asks, "Can I have more cake, please?"

"May I," Spencer's mom says.

"May I have more cake, please?"

Spencer could tell him he would have gotten it anyway.

 

 

*

Bob drafts Ray, Gerard and JC into helping clean up while Mikey and Frank keep Brendon occupied with a rousing and only occasionally violent game of Apples to Apples. Spencer's mom looks at Bob and asks in a besotted tone, "So, when is my son making an honest man out of you?"

Ray says, "On his twenty-first birthday. We have the ceremony all planned."

Spencer's mom grins. "Would you like some more cake?"

"I would love some more cake," Ray tells her.

She cuts some for JC, too and says, "You're too skinny."

JC shares with Gerard, who looks a little jealous.

Jon wanders in and asks, "Need anymore help?"

"I thought you were watching to make sure they didn't burn my house down, Jonathan Jacob Walker."

"I sprayed everything down with flame retardant, ma'am."

Spencer's mom laughs, ruffling Jon's hair. Jon takes it with good grace, the way Jon takes everything. Spencer asks, "Who's winning?"

"Mikey." Jon turns to Gerard. "Has anybody tested your brother for ESP?"

Gerard shakes his head. "We just wear tinfoil hats. It works as well as anything's going to."

Jon nods. "Logical."

"Brendon getting uppity with him?" Spencer asks.

"Ryan's got it under control," Jon says, and Spencer leaves well enough alone.

With six guys who know how to move in a small space and a mom, the kitchen is clean in record time, and they fan out to the dining room and living room. Bob follows Spencer into the former and helps clean up the last of the debris. Spencer says, "It was really good of you guys to come. All of you, I mean."

"Sure you don't wanna get married and be my tour wife? I could probably get my own bus."

Spencer laughs. "You gonna let me have half your shows, too?"

"You drive a hard bargain. Okay."

Spencer rolls his eyes.

"Europe was sort of a long way away."

"We've done it before."

"I know."

Spencer nods. He missed Bob, too. He misses him in general, but when texting and phone calls aren't ready options, it's that much worse.

"You've probably gotta stay here tonight, huh?"

Spencer says, "She won't check what time I get in."

"And your dad?"

Spencer shakes his head. "What time you guys head out?"

Bob laughs. "Like five, or something. We've gotta be at the venue by one."

Spencer maybe feels a little bit guilty about that.

"We're glad we came. I don't think anyone's ever been that glad to see us at a party. Not even the time we played Ray's cousin's sweet sixteen. And that was...intense."

Spencer can just bet. "Okay."

"Come to the hotel until we leave?"

Spencer nods. "Yeah. Yes."

 

 

*

The first time happens against the door and it's so fast the two of them can barely get their dicks out, come into contact with each other, before they're coming. Spencer says, "Well, I'm impressed with us. Anyone else?"

Bob laughs. He strips Spencer's shirt off of him, says, "Oh yeah, me too."

Spencer runs his hands under Bob's shirt, dragging it up with them as he goes. Bob ducks a little, makes it easier for Spencer to discard the shirt. Spencer presses himself into Bob then, just skin on skin, no more deep urgency. Bob pushes a little bit at Spencer's pants and he shimmies the rest of the way out of them, slipping off his sandals, allowing all of it to lie in a heap. "That gonna bother you?"

"We've got seven hours. I think I can handle it."

"Atta boy." Spencer pulls Bob's pants down and Bob leans against the door so that Spencer can get them off. Spencer walks to the bed keeping his gait slow and long. Bob likes to watch, he knows. On the nightstand, there's an ice bucket. Most of the ice is melted—Bob probably got it that morning, but there are six or seven pieces hanging in there. Spencer pops one in his mouth and sucks, letting the cold soothe some of the ache in his throat that the words, "seven hours," implanted.

Bob lays down next to him, their sides running along each other. He says, "There's something—"

"Yeah?" Spencer asks.

"I'd sort of like to watch."

"What?"

"You. Getting yourself ready."

Spencer rolls over onto Bob's chest, looks at him. "Just watch?"

"Hot young thing," Bob says.

Spencer licks his nipple. Then he pulls back and sits up, situating himself against the headboard. "Where's your stuff?"

Bob reaches in the nightstand.

"For someone who didn't think I was going to be able to come back to the hotel with him—"

"Eternal optimist."

"Or something," Spencer says, and sets the lube next to him.

He starts with his nipples. Bob likes his nipples, likes touching them, nibbling at them. Spencer runs his thumb around the right one and thinks of the heat of Bob's tongue, the blunt, sweet pressure of his teeth. He pinches the nub, just a bit, at that thought. Bob whispers, "Spence," already slightly in awe. Spencer smiles, the power Bob is giving him heady and not nearly so tricky as the kind he usually has to navigate.

He lets one hand, the hand that's not still occupied with his nipples, fall to his balls and rolls them around a bit. He's still not really ready to go again, but he will be soon enough. For now he's just enjoying the damp heat of his palm against his own sensitive skin, the heavy, insistent weight of Bob's gaze on him. When he's ready—and he can hear all the words Bob is biting back—he pours some of the lube onto one hand and wraps his fist firmly around his cock. He licks his lips and locks his eyes on Bob and says, "Hey," and pulls.

It's enough to get things started. Spencer eases off after that, teasing a bit at his own head, running fingernails along his length, but in the end he returns to that strong slip/slide motion until he's saying, "Was this all you wanted?"

Evidently not, because Bob pulls Spencer's hand from his cock. "Hands and knees, Spence."

That's a little bit much to ask at this point, but Spencer's sort of interested in doing anything, _anything_ that makes Bob keep looking at him like that. He finds his way to the position. Bob warms the lube and his fingers are thick and comfortable and almost exactly what Spencer wants. He pushes himself further onto them, ignoring Bob's laughter, or, well, snapping, "You love it," and maybe meaning, "you love _me_."

Bob says, "So fucking much, Spence."

Spencer's about to threaten to bring himself off if Bob doesn't get his cock where it's damn well supposed to be by this time, but when he opens his mouth what comes out is a startled screech of, "Holy shit, cold!"

Bob does laughs at that. Spencer pants as one ice-water drenched hand comes away from slipping one of the last pieces of ice inside him to settle on his hip.

"Asshole," Spencer says, and he would hold on to his righteous anger except now Bob is pushing into him, all heat and strength, and the cold has taken just enough of the edge off that Spencer can stand Bob's slow glide into him, has heightened his senses just enough that each inch is _that much more_ than it would have been.

"Fuck," Spencer says, "fuck."

"You like that?" Bob asks, his mouth at Spencer's ear. Spencer throws his head back and Bob licks along his throat, up over his jawbone.

"Fast and hard?" Bob asks, giving an example, "or slow and sweet?"

Spencer whimpers. He knows he only gets one, only one and then he has to wait until next time, a month, maybe. Maybe more. Probably more. "Slow. Make it last."

Bob takes him at his word. Every time Spencer gets near there's a newly iced hand at his cock, bringing things back. Each pull is an eternity, each thrust longer. When Bob finally can't hold off any more, he lets Spencer come along with him. Spencer has lost all sense of space and time, except to know that he still doesn't want this to end.

Bob falls to his side, taking Spencer with him. They lie like that, damp and limp and curled in each other, for a long time, longer than they probably should. Separating is going to hurt. Bob kisses Spencer's shoulder and repeats, "Hot young thing."

Spencer repeats, "You love it."

 

 

*

At around four in the morning, wanting to take his time, Bob kisses Spencer and says, "Hey. I love you."

"Yeah, me too," Spencer tells him, and continues the kiss, obviously avoiding Bob's gaze. Bob's tired and he wants more time with his boyfriend and is not really looking forward to being on the road again, not when he feels like he barely just stepped off a plane, so he pushes the issue, grabs Spencer's chin in his hand and makes him look.

Spencer says, "I do," and it's so defensive Bob feels the words impact against his chest.

"I know. You just have a thing about saying it. And I always thought that was maybe because your family wasn't the expressive sort, but I've met your mom now, and she seems like the type who doesn't have a problem telling you, so all my guesses are used up."

Spencer sighs. "It's a Ryan and me thing."

Bob closes his eyes for a second. He should have started earlier.

"No, I didn't mean— I didn't mean I wouldn't tell you. I meant that's where it comes from."

Bob opens his eyes. Spencer looks exhausted. Bob thinks about telling him he doesn't have to say, but Spencer offering anything about him and Ryan is sort of novel, and while Bob knows he just has to wait, that these things will come in time, he isn't yet willing to turn down anything Spencer sets out. "Tell me."

"Ryan doesn't like to hear it. Because it's how his dad always said he was sorry, you know? I mean, he'd land Ryan with shiners or bruised muscles and then two days later it was all, 'you know I love you, son,' and then the next time it was always the same. I said it to him once, I just, he looked like he needed to hear it, so I draped my arm over his shoulder and said, 'I love you, Ryan,' and he said, 'Don't fucking say that, don't,' but he didn't sound mad, he sounded so completely lost and betrayed and it's been hard for me to say it to anyone since. Because they might not know what it means, they might hear it another way and then I would be saying something I wasn't saying. I don't want to say wrong things to you."

"You say things you don't mean to me all the time."

"Because you know what I mean when I say those things."

"I would know what you meant if you said real things to me, too. And if I thought I didn't, I would ask."

"I just don't want it not to— I really love Ryan, you know? He's the closest thing I have to a brother, maybe closer. I _love_ him. And I said that and he thought I meant 'I'm done hurting you for now.'"

Bob nods. That is a serious consideration. He runs his hand up and down the length of Spencer's arm, his thumb dragging over the drumstick. "Maybe we could have other words. A code for us. I could tell you that there are, in fact, whiskers on kittens."

Spencer laughs, and Bob can tell he's not expecting it, always knows when that first explosion of happiness comes out of nowhere. "And I could tell you that yesterday was nothing compared to today. Because I have the guts to say that. I have the guts to say the other thing, too. But I like that better."

Bob sort of likes that they have their own way of saying it in any case. It's better. They haven't done anything like other people up until now. This seems an odd place to start. "Also, you are one of my favorite things."

"One of them?"

"I have a band, Smith."

Spencer sighs. "Fine."

 

 

*

"I want to meet your cat," Bob tells Spencer as an opener to their phone conversation.

"I miss you too, asshole," Spencer says sweetly.

"Reel it in, Smith."

Spencer laughs.

Bob admits, "I wouldn't mind seeing you, either."

"Horny?"

"Why else would I want to see you?"

"Evidently for my cat," Spencer says dryly.

"Thank you for not going where you could have gone with that."

"Don't think I didn't consider it."

"I know you did, hence the 'thanks'."

Spencer smiles. "You know me so well."

"Well enough to know you've probably talked to the guys by now."

Spencer doesn't say anything.

"Hey. Spencer. Pretend I'm there and shaking you a bit, okay?"

Spencer actually participates in the mental exercise. It helps. "We talked."

"Oh, am I back to being the boyfriend you can speak to without concern of other people finding out?"

"Sorry."

"Spen—"

"I said I was fucking sorry."

"I don't want sorry. Not now when you're doing what I asked you to do, and not in the future when maybe you could just trust—"

"I do trust you." Spencer can feel himself breathing like he's just gone ten rounds with someone bigger than himself.

"Okay, okay, calm down."

"I trust you," Spencer doesn't feel like calming down, "but these are my guys, which is sort of like when it was just me and Ryan and I could tell my parents, sure, but I could never tell his parents because his mom just didn't have time, she just didn't, and his dad, well, so I got used to it being us, just us, and it's like that, with the three of them and it's not that I don't trust you, okay? And I hate it when you... I hate it when I make you feel like that and then you say it and I'm not the kind of guy to just fold so I get all, you know how I get, and—"

"Stop, Spence. Stop."

Spencer stops.

"I'll find better ways to bring you out."

"This isn't your fault," Spencer says quietly.

"And the way the world is isn't yours."

"I actually know that part."

"You forget a little, sometimes."

"Not as much as Brendon."

"I'm not sure how much that says."

Spencer will give him that.

There's a stretch of silence before Bob says, "So you talked? About Pete? Gerard will be happy."

"My reason for living."

"Hush. Things are better?"

"I'm gonna try. I'm going to— Try."

"You're pretty good at the shit you try."

"I think you might have a bias."

"Probably."

"Thanks for agreeing."

"I try and make things easy on you."

Spencer can hear the smirk. He says, "You do," even though it's not clever or removed or any of the things he prefers to be most of the time.

"Good," Bob says, meeting him halfway.

 

 

*

Brendon answers the cabin door with a confused look. Bob gets it. They probably aren't expecting anyone. He's not scheduled to arrive for another couple of days. He told Spencer he had shit that needed to get taken care of home-side. He does. It can be handled when he goes to visit his mom after the Black Parade Tour ends. He's thinking about trying to convince Spencer to come up and meet her, depending on what's going on for Spencer at that point. Elation takes over for confusion within seconds and Bob opens his arms just quick enough to catch the flying projectile Brendon transforms himself into.

"Hi!" Brendon says. "Hi! Hi! Hi!"

"Hi," Bob says, and squeezes back as tightly as Brendon is squeezing—tighter, until Brendon stops breathing and goes limp in defeat. Bob puts him gently on his feet.

"Brendon," Ryan calls, "Who is it?"

"Surprise!" Brendon calls back, grinning at Bob. Bob shares the grin. He follows Brendon into the cabin. Spencer is bent over the same piece of paper as Ryan, Ryan trying to explain something. He looks up when they enter the room, opening his mouth. Brendon pre-empts anything he could say with, "Look who I found."

Spencer is already on Bob by the word, "found." Bob's arms fall around him by instinct. Bob has missed this, the insistence of Spencer's tongue, the slide of his lips, the way he just doesn't do this shit by halves. Bob has missed everything about Spencer.

Ryan says, "So, I guess I can say fuck it to getting some more group writing done this afternoon," but he's smiling at Bob.

Bob tears himself away from the kiss long enough to smile back. Spencer likes it when people who aren't fans smile at Ryan. "Sorry."

Ryan shakes his head. Jon says, "I think we can hold down the fort. Cabin. Whatever we need to hold." He makes shooing motions. "Go. Frolic. Be as one."

"I promise never to be mean about you and Pete ever again," Spencer says, taking Bob's hand to lead him hopefully somewhere private and with a bed.

"Or at least until you're done having sex with Bob," Jon says.

"Or that," Spencer agrees.

Brendon laughs. Ryan rolls his eyes. Jon says, "Asshat."

 

 

*

Spencer leaves articles of clothing in the hallway. Bob laughs, says, "Oh, hot, Smith."

"Ryan and Brendon and Jon all know how babies are made," Spencer says, and wrests Bob's shirt off of him, throwing it aside and pushing Bob into the room.

"Sure about that?"

Spencer closes the door behind them. "Well, okay, I don't know what the hell Ryan told Brendon, but he'll cover for us, regardless."

Bob laughs some more into the kiss that Spencer initiates, sloppy and hard and perfect. Spencer sinks to his knees, his tongue dragging along the surface of Bob's chest as he goes. He has Bob's pants to his thighs before he's even reached the ground, Bob's cock in his mouth as soon as his knees have made contact. And okay, yeah, Bob has, "Missed this. You. Missed you."

Spencer laughs around Bob's cock. Bob doesn't care. He can be as arrogant as he wants. Only, "Spence."

Spencer doesn't pause.

More insistently, "Spencer."

"Fucking hell, I'm building to it. I mean, I know we haven't seen each other, but come on, a little artistry—"

"Wanna suck you too."

"Wait your fucking turn."

"No, I mean—"

"Oh."

Bob pats Spencer's head. Spencer flips him off, then pulls him down to the ground. "That's a _great_ idea."

Spencer twists, and lays down on his back. He arches a bit to get his pants down the requisite amount and then he's trying to tug Bob back into position. Bob has no issue with helping him out, straddling over him, lowering his cock into Spencer's open mouth, lips already wet from his taster course. Bob braces himself with his hands on either side of Spencer's hips and takes Spencer in. Spencer's throat _closes_ around Bob and it's almost painful, almost too much after the month and a half or so. Bob sucks hard as a bit of revenge and manages to hold on, just.

It is unquestionably a contest then, but Bob is confident. Spencer is eight years younger than him. He doesn't care that it gives him an unfair advantage. If he's going to be mocked ruthlessly, he might as well get something out of the situation. Bob runs one thumb over the exposed skin of Spencer's ass, just a quick stroke of the soft skin. Spencer moans around Bob's cock. Bob lowers his head, takes Spencer down, down, holds him there, holds him inside, swallows around him, doesn't—can't be bothered to—care that it's hard to breathe. Spencer says something—maybe Bob's name—over, against Bob's cock, and Bob is swallowing, taking Spencer wholly into him. Mission accomplished, Bob lets Spencer have what he wants.

 

 

*

Having taken the edge off, there's time for the two of them to slip into the shower—Bob hates the way he feels when he gets off an airplane—and for Spencer to tell Bob about the drum line he's thinking of for the song Ryan's writing, how it's just a little bit off, and he doesn't always trust himself when playing it, and how that's what makes it sort of awesome, but also, scary. Spencer describes the beat and Bob thinks he can hear it in his head, but Spencer will have to play it later, when they can talk about possible options for how to make it better, easier. Ryan knocks on the door at some point after they've dried off, when they're lounging on the bed, touching each other and catching up on the parts they've forgotten to tell each other the last time they spoke. Spencer pulls a sheet over them and says, somewhat testily, "Yeah?"

Ryan pokes his head in. "We're ordering pizza. You guys want me to get an extra for you?"

"Yes," Bob says, before Spencer can open his mouth. He's been flying all day. He loves Spencer, but if there's going to be a second round, there needs to be sustenance.

Spencer says, "Red onions and pineapple with extra cheese."

Ryan says, "I'm telling Ray."

"You do that, Ross." Bob has plenty of revenge material, if it comes to that. Ryan snickers and disappears again.

Spencer says, "Think we can manage again before the food gets here?"

"Maybe you can," Bob says, looking down consideringly.

Spencer waves a hand. "I'll wait."

Bob drags a finger from the crest of one hipbone all the way across to the other. Spencer asks, softly, "You worried about Mikey?"

Bob doesn't look at Spencer as he nods. Spencer's having none of that, he puts a hand to Bob's chin, drags his face to where he needs it. Spencer says, "There are some things that can't be fixed with love. No matter what."

"Spencer—"

"No. No. You were— When you came along I was getting the fuck by. Ryan was so hidden behind his own barriers it was looking like we were going to need governmental help to uncover even the artifacts of him, and Brendon was reeling from the 'freedom' of being set out from his own and Brent was just along for the ride like it was some kind of Sunday afternoon outing. And I couldn't do a fucking thing about it, but you came and reminded me that some shit can be fixed, even if some can't. You gotta work with the stuff that can't, gotta find ways to make it just okay enough. You guys sent him home. That was what could be done. And there weren’t glass shards and scars and utter blinding fear that this was the end this time, okay? Mikey's just... Mikey. He goes as far as he can. You guys manage to carry him a little farther sometimes, but then there are gonna be times when he just has to stop."

Bob nods. He knows. It sounds better aloud, in Spencer's voice, but he knows. Still, "It's just wrong without him. I mean, Matt's nice as hell and I don't have a problem with him, none of us do, except that he's not Mikey, and poor guy, I think he knows it. Gerard, Gerard will sometimes forget in the middle of a show and turn to him, expecting it to be Mikey and his face—"

Spencer's intake of breath is sharp. "Yeah."

"It's just wrong."

Spencer draws Bob down, to where Bob's head is resting atop Spencer's chest. "He'll come back. He did before."

Bob's so fucking tired of having to go without the people he wants by him in his life. He closes his eyes. "Yeah."

"He would stay with you guys always, if he could. He would."

Bob isn't sure they're talking about Mikey anymore, but, "Yeah," Mikey would.

Spencer says, "I'll wake you when the pizza comes."

Bob says, "Whiskers," and falls asleep.

 

 

*

Ryan ends up waking the both of them when the pizza comes and they eat and then sleep some more. Spencer wakes up first and presses his lips to Bob's. Bob asks, "Would you like something?"

Spencer laces his fingers in Bob's and rolls onto his back, pulling Bob atop him. Bob is careful not to let the whole of his weight rest on Spencer. Spencer is hardy, but still smaller than Bob any way one looks at it. Spencer brings a hand up to play with Bob's hair. Bob plays with Spencer's lower lip, holding it captive between his teeth, sucking at it lightly. He lets go and asks, "You slept with anybody but me since we got together?"

"I'm only a slut for you, Bryar."

"And before it was a couple of blowjobs, handjobs, right?"

"You're the only man I will ever give my ass to," Spencer says in a breathy, high-pitched voice.

Bob smacks his hip, lightly. "I'm clean. And I don't sleep with anyone else. Ever. We could, um. If you were okay, we could, I could—"

"If you don't stop talking about barebacking me, I'm gonna come before you so much as lift my legs."

"Yes?"

" _Now_ , Bob."

Bob lifts up just enough to drape Spencer's legs over his shoulders. Spencer reaches to the nightstand and hands Bob the lube. Bob slaps some on and slides straight in. It's good, Spencer can admit that he's sort of impatient about these sorts of things, and oh, yeah, okay, "This is the best idea you've _ever_ had."

And Bob has had some pretty good ones. Spencer can't remember what they are at this moment, but he's quite certain they have existed. Bob says, "No kidding."

"Faster," Spencer whines.

"No. Next time."

Spencer finds Bob's hand again and squeezes Bob's fingers. "Bob."

"No, Spence. No, this is—"

"Okay," Spencer agrees, because yeah, it really is. Spencer's been thinking about a lot of things him and Bob should maybe consider, but oddly, this was never on the list. They should compare lists. Spencer will try to remember to do so when his brain can focus on more than the absolute and utter beauty of Bob's bare skin.

Bob brings the hand that Spencer is holding to Spencer's cock and Spencer makes himself breathe, makes himself hold, just for a moment because this should never, ever end, never, even if they can do it again. There's no going back on a first. Bob says, "Spence," and Spencer thinks his name sounds like a beat, like the first beat of a song, like the thing that grounds and starts and matters most. He pulls Bob into the complete maelstrom of pleasure with a gasped, "Bob."

It sounds like the final beat of a song.

 

 

*

_July 2008_

Bob says, "Look, I plan to get you something you will never expect and will cherish to the end of your days, but aside from that, what would you like for your birthday?"

Spencer says, "I think we should get a place together," and, okay, it's possible he had had been trying to find the right moment to say that and after waiting a bit too long, it just came right off his lips without forethought or permission.

Bob is silent for a second and Spencer opens his mouth to say, "That was a joke," when Bob asks, "Where?"

Spencer's brain halts for a second at the easy agreement and then he runs with it. There's no reason to make things more complicated than need be. "I thought Chicago would be better. That way me and my guys would have somewhere to stay when we were visiting Jon and you'd have a home to go to when you were visiting your mom, and even Pete would have somewhere to escape to when he was in the city. It's just a good idea all around."

"What about when _you_ go home?"

"I can keep the apartment, there." There's a lengthy silence once more and Spencer says, "Look, if you don't like the idea—"

"Like a condo, or a house?"

Spencer was actually thinking more toward apartment, like Ryan and Brendon, but now that Bob has brought it up, "Hm. Condo might be better, what with the upkeep."

"Yeah," Bob doesn't sound so sure. "I like houses."

Spencer does too. They have things like yards, where dogs can play. Not that either of them would ever be home long enough to keep a dog there, but it's the principle of the thing. Also, houses just seem more...permanent. "House would be good."

"So, uh. Do you know anything about buying a house?"

"You're kidding, right?"

Bob sighs. "Mikey does."

"I could ask Pete."

"We're relying on Mikey Way and Pete Wentz for the purchase of our future homestead."

"It'll work out brilliantly," Spencer says.

 

 

*

Mikey shows Bob all the tricks to using the internet for house shopping. He passes on the wisdom to Spencer and soon there are links flying back and forth between the two of them. This means that occasionally Frank will manage to sneak an entirely outlandish suggestion in there—the Bavarian castle looking thing out in _Decatur_ of all places—or Brendon will stick advertisements for backyard water parks in between Spencer's ideas, but mostly, it's a good system. They try to arrange for a combined visit, but Spencer is finishing up a tour, Bob is starting one, and there's just no good way to meet up. Spencer says, "You think you can take some time when you're there at the end of the month?"

He hates asking, but it's the first chance either of them have to actually look at any of these places. "I mean, your mom wouldn't mind, would she? Going with you?"

"She'd probably be thrilled. You realize none of the others are going to let me leave them, either, don't you?"

"Ray might."

"Maybe." Bob's tone brightens a bit.

"Look on the bright side. You'll have actually seen the place. I probably won't until after we sign."

"I dunno, Spence—"

"They aren't just going to put the houses on hold forever, and I don't finish up for another month."

"So you'll come out and look in a month. What's still there is still there. We can always start over."

"And when are _you_ going to get back?"

"I could probably do an overnight sometime later that month."

"Problem still stands."

"It's our _house_. I can't decide on it for us."

"Except that I've seen the pictures, we've made preliminary decisions, and I trust you. So, yes, you can."

Bob growls. "If you hate it, I'm still making you live there with me."

Spencer pretends he's not totally turned on. "That's fine, you're the one who has to hear me bitch and moan."

"There's no winning with you."

"None ever."

 

 

*

Bob's mom asks, "You sure you need me? I think the traveling circus will provide you the full range of possible opinions."

Bob says, "You're my mom."

"As true a statement as any ever was."

Bob laughs and kisses her head. "Besides, none of them has an eye for the feminine."

"Oh honey," she sighs. "Gerard and Mikey far outstrip my abilities in that area."

He laughs some more, but when he thinks about it, she's probably right. Also, JC—who almost always comes to their Chicago shows, since he can see his parents and Gerard all in one go—is coming along with, and JC definitely outdoes all of them so far as that aspect is concerned. The realtor looks a little overwhelmed by the small circus Bob has brought with him. Ray smiles at her and says, "I promise we've all had our shots." Bob's mom snorts, JC giggles, the realtor does not look at all reassured.

The first house seems nice, but Mikey points out all the ways that moving furniture in is going to be a bitch. Mikey seems pretty excited about it, actually, but then, Mikey tried to convince Bob and Spencer to let him construct every last piece of furniture, up to and including their bed. The second house is all well and good, but—as Frank first points out, then Gerard, then JC, then even _Ray_ —it's kind of boring.

Gerard says, "I don't think it's a good plan to be presenting Spencer Smith with a boring house. He'll whip out his bitch face."

"You're one to talk," Bob says. Bob doesn't like the neighborhood of the third house—it's cookie cutter-ish and creepy, and the fourth one is a little too far from his mom's place for his own comfort. The fifth one is the one that Spencer voiced reservations about, saying, "I dunno, it looks like somewhere my grandmother would live."

Bob had said, "I like old-fashioned."

The inside of the house, however, belies its facade, the wood floors a light maple, well-polished, the carpets thick and in tasteful colors, the lay-out breezy and open and Bob calls Spencer and asks, "How much of a problem would it be, living in your grandmother's house?"

Gerard grabs the phone. "Say not a problem, say not a problem."

JC gently pries the phone from him. "This place really is spectacular, Spence."

"Totally," Frank says into the mouthpiece, simply inserting himself into JC's space.

Bob hears Spencer say, "Could I please speak to my boyfriend again?"

Bob takes the phone from JC. "Hi."

Spencer asks, "What does your mom say?"

"That she's driving out here to use our tub."

"Well, that's a selling point."

"Spence, seriously. There's space to put in a studio if we want and still have room for at least three of the guys to visit at once. And it's us. I swear."

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I told you I was trusting you."

"Well, yeah, but this is a _house_."

"I'm not even twenty-one and wealthy. I can buy myself another one if I so desire."

Bob laughs.

 

 

*

Brendon says, "I'm so coming over here to take a bath."

"You and Bob's mom can share," Spencer tells him.

"Um," Ryan says. Jon laughs. Brendon has already made it through the house twice, so far as Spencer can tell, but Spencer's still working his way through the living area, into the kitchen. Jon is staring out the wall of windows in the eating area of the kitchen onto a yard that stretches quite some way. The master bedroom—accompanied by everybody's favorite bathtub—is on the first floor, along with the study that Bob was talking about turning into a studio. The second floor houses three sizable rooms. Spencer looks out the windows of one of them onto the front yard, the quiet street that is home to other single-family houses, all somewhat quaint and like something out of a coffee table book on Americana.

From the doorway to the room, Ryan asks, "Not what you were imagining?"

"I didn't— I hadn't really thought about it in terms of it being a _house_ , you know?"

"Oh." Ryan comes to stand beside him.

"You thought I was disappointed?"

"You're being a little quiet. I wasn't the only one who noticed."

"Just the one appointed to come talk to me about it."

"I'm Ryan. You're Spencer."

It's a good point. Spencer is quiet for a moment, at which point he says, "He saw us in this place."

Ryan nods. "It gets hard, after a while, doesn't it, _not_ to see your other person everywhere?"

"No, but. I mean, he looked at other houses before this one. This one was where he saw us."

"It looks like home, Spence. I don't even know what the fuck that means and I know this place is it."

Spencer calls the lie. "You know."

"A little bit. Mine looks different. Still."

"Still," Spencer agrees.

"You? Do you see the two of you here?"

If Spencer closes his eyes, that's all he sees. That, and nothing else.

 

 

*

Bob's furniture—what little he has—is mostly pre-MCR purchased and not at all acceptable for their new house. Spencer's needs to stay in Nevada where it will still be needed at times. Mikey says, "I really could make you a kitchen table."

Bob tells Spencer, "I'm starting to think he's going to cry if he doesn't get to assemble something."

"Kitchen table sounds good to me," Spencer says. "Just make sure it matches the wood in there, all right?"

"I got us an interior designer."

"Really?"

"It was that or let chaos, mayhem, romance and panic have their way with the house."

"True," Spencer grants. "Who is it?"

"I have no idea. Someone Jace's mom recommended. She has a really nice place."

"Maybe I should meet this person."

"I emailed you her phone number."

"Yeah, I had an email leak, you're gonna have to send it to my new addy."

"Way to keep me updated on these things."

"It happened a day ago."

"We've spoken twice since then."

"I can't imagine me thinking you didn't need my new email just yet."

Bob makes a noise of amusement. "Whatever. So Mikey can assemble the kitchen table?"

"And the coffee table and the nightstands, for that matter."

"Seriously?"

"Shit, if he wants to get in on the entertainment center, that's all him."

"He's going to love you more than he loves me."

"That was always the plan."

"You're the worst boyfriend ever," Bob accuses.

"You keep telling yourself that."

 

 

*

Spencer tells Ellen The Interior Designer—as Brendon likes to call her—"We want to keep as much of the natural light of the place as we can."

Bob says, "And we want the furniture to be comfortable."

Spencer adds, "And places to put to pictures. Of people."

Bob finishes with, "We really just want to be able to live there. Like a home."

Ellen says, "Easier than what people usually want from me."

She finds them what looks to be the best couch _ever_. Spencer can't know for sure until he's allowed Brendon to divebomb it, Ryan to curl up in it and Jon to lounge on it, but it looks awfully promising, and it fits really nicely in the living room, so far as he can tell from the pictures. She manages the same feat with their bed, and actually coordinates with Mikey to find classy furniture that he can put together with his very own bass-playing hands.

She asks if she can see these pictures of people and Bob and he coordinate to find the pictures they most want on their walls and send them to her. She gets them tastefully framed and placed in positions where natural light will show them off throughout the whole of the day. She makes their bathroom into a mecca of relaxation and zen and despite the fact that he knows he's going to be fighting off Ryan and Brendon for time in his own tub, he tells Bob, "Ellen was the best idea you've ever had."

"Ever?" Bob asks.

Spencer thinks about it. "There was that time with the ties. Hm. And giving up condoms. And— Nope, yeah, best idea ever."

"If you were here, I would throw my drumstick at you."

"How are you going to play with only one?"

"I keep extras," Bob informs him, "just in case I need to beat little shits like you down."

"That's hot, why have you never told me that?"

"A man's gotta have some secrets."

"What else aren't you telling me?"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"I bet I could get it out of you," Spencer challenges.

"Not over the phone."

"Well, but then, you can't throw your drumstick at me either. For the moment, we're even."

"When we see each other—"

"All bets are off," Spencer says. Yeah, they're in _complete_ agreement on that score.

 

 

*

Spencer gets the key in the mail. Brendon buys him an MCR keychain, which makes Spencer roll his eyes, but he also puts the key on there. He takes it everywhere with him, despite the fact that the house is in Chicago and he won't be seeing it for another month, since that was the first chance Bob had to make it out there, and Spencer didn't really feel like spending time in their house alone. Not the first time. The plan is to spend five days there together and then have a housewarming party with the others. After that it's back to touring for both of them; Bob on their current tour, Spencer on the second leg of their last one.

They give interviews and Spencer has to keep himself from talking about the house because as far as the general public knows it's Bob's. It just makes more sense, geographically. Brendon's good about it and talks even more than usual to pick up the slack. Spencer buys him a lot of candy in appreciation, which both Ryan and Jon have started trying to find ways of diverting from its final destination. He watches the interviews where Bob talks about the house—he actually talks, too, which is rare and fun for Spencer. Bob smiles when he talks about it, and the interviewers have noticed, but Spencer doesn't think they know anything. Bob's just not much of a smiler for anyone other than his boys. And Spencer. (And, okay, Spencer's boys and JC. It is, admittedly, an ever-widening circle. One that has not yet extended to include—and probably never will—journalists.)

Frank makes fun of him whenever the topic comes up, but then, he's Frank. Mikey is almost as excited as Bob. Gerard is just glad to have somewhere he and JC can escape to when they're in Chicago. Ray is happy for Bob and otherwise doesn't seem to have much of an opinion on the subject.

The key swings lightly against Spencer's hip, stuck on his belt loop. Every time it hits he thinks, "Home," and, "soon," and, "Bob". Not necessarily in that order. It is the nicest rhythm he's ever found.

 

 

*

Bob arrives slightly before Spencer, so he's able to pull Spencer in the door and kiss him like the two of them might not have mouths come morning. Spencer manages, "Let's just start here," between kisses.

They have pondered where to christen first in their new house and had decided the studio had a nice thematic ring to it, but yeah, Spencer's right. "Mmhm."

Bob's hands go to Spencer's pants, Spencer returning the favor. Bob slips his hand around Spencer's cock just as Spencer's fingers close on his. "Missed you," he works out against Spencer's lips.

" _Bob_ ," Spencer says.

They move sideways a bit—mostly just from the momentum of the pleasure and the kissing. Bob finds the wall with his shoulder, and that's useful, because otherwise he's not sure how much longer he would have been standing. Spencer's fingers are calloused in all the right places, and long and knowing and just, _Spencer's fingers_ , and Bob is and always has been a weak, weak man in the wake of the force that is Spencer Smith. He can admit it. Well, not to Ray, but that's something else entirely.

Bob tightens his fingers, laps up the mewl that it occasions from Spencer. Spencer bucks into Bob's hand and comes, messy and exactly, exactly what Bob missed so fucking much. Spencer gives a particularly concerted pull and Bob follows it, coming as implicitly commanded. Once they're safely on the floor, Bob says, "This is really nice wood."

Spencer laughs.

 

 

*

Ellen has pinned a number of order-in menus to the fridge with magnetized clips. Spencer says, "I'm marrying Ellen," and finds one for pizza.

"I'm feeling threatened," Bob tells him.

"What do you want?" Spencer asks.

Bob waves a hand. "Whatever."

Spencer celebrates the not-entirely-new (at least a year old) fact of Bob having finally given up his veganism and orders them hamburger and green peppers. They eat slowly so that Bob will have time to tell Spencer how Mikey's holding up on the new tour and what kinds of crazy-ass shit the fans have pulled and that Ray is actually dating a girl, as in, monogamously. Spencer, in turn, will tell Bob about Queen's latest escapades, and Ryan's newest ideas for the next album, and Jon's attempts to learn the harmonica. When they're done eating, Spencer takes the plates and goes to the sink to wash them.

Bob comes up behind him, turns the water off and says, "The studio really can wait."

Spencer's got his pants around his thighs at the touch of Bob's fingers to the tap. There's unscented hand lotion by the sink--Spencer _really_ loves Ellen--and Bob grabs it, using it to help him slide two fingers into Spencer. Spencer bends a little further over the sink, his arms braced on the counter. "Oh, you complete romantic."

Bob twists just right. "You know it."

He pushes in just as Spencer's about to threaten dire consequences if he doesn't get some dick, and soon. Spencer's hips are pressed almost too tightly to the clean Corian edge of the counter, his hands slipping on the water that sprang up from the sink. His cock is rubbing against the smooth wood of the cabinets and, "Yeah, Bob, fuck, like that."

"Greedy," Bob murmurs.

"You bet," Spencer says, and takes everything Bob has to give.

 

 

*

The master bathroom ends up being before the studio as well, because Bob is getting off tour and Spencer has flown all day and they're both feeling a little more ragged around the edges than they'd like to admit. Bob runs a bath in the _huge_ all-of-Panic-with-room-to-spare sized tub. Spencer flips on the jets and the two of them sink into the water, Spencer with a jet at the small of his back, Bob with one between his shoulder blades. The jets are on a timer and when they go off, Spencer lets himself slip beneath the surface of the water and float for a moment before emerging, warm and wet. Bob reaches out and wraps his hand around one of Spencer's wrists. "C'mere."

It isn't hard for Bob to pull him through the water. Spencer folds himself onto Bob's lap and they kiss, lazily for a while. When he's ready, Spencer shifts Bob a little so that he can turn into him, can brush their cocks against each other. Bob says, "I dunno, Spence—"

Spencer says, "Whatever, okay? Just. Just kiss me."

It's slow, but that's what Spencer wants just now. It's not even really about the pleasure, although that's a nice side effect. The intimacy is intense, perfect, exactly what he wants, _needs_. Bob does respond, although it takes him longer. That's fine, Spencer's not in a rush. For once, they don't have to be anywhere else.

Spencer presses a button and the mess drains away with the bath water. He pulls both of them carefully to their feet and grabs the towels waiting patiently on the side of the bath. When they're dry, they crawl into bed, Spencer sprawling wholly over Bob, and let the length of the day take them.

 

 

*

They finally get to the studio later that day, when they've slept quite a bit more, and eaten lunch. And chocolate cake. Spencer was very insistent about the chocolate cake. Bob thinks it's because he needs the caffeine to carry on with his diabolical plan to kill Bob. Bob's actually sort of behind that.

Bob sits on the chair for the drum kit and Spencer does most of the work, straddling Bob's thighs, setting the pace, making things last. When he is done, Bob holds him up, because Bob has a chair back providing support. Spencer laughs. "Only five rooms to go."

"Five?"

"Well, I don't really wanna do it in the basement, it's kinda creepy down there. Or the attic. I mean, unless—"

"I had counted four."

"Living room, other three bedrooms, utility room."

"Utility room? Spencer—"

"Shut up. You're going to do me against or atop the washing machine while it's running and you're going to like it."

"Listen, if I die before the end of this—"

"You do know the old thing is a joke, right?"

"—week, there are some things you need—"

Spencer laughs and kisses Bob. "We can do a couple tomorrow, and a couple the day after that. Deal?"

"You are most patient with me."

"You bet I am."

 

 

*

Bob's mom picks Spencer's parents up at the hotel and brings them out early on the morning of the party. Early enough that neither Spencer nor Bob is dressed yet. When Spencer peeks out the spyhole he says, "Oh fuck."

Bob calls, "What's wrong?"

"Your mom is at the door and I'm in my boxers."

"She knows we have sex, Smith."

That's _totally_ not the point. Particularly as they hadn't even been having sex. They'd been sleeping. Spencer stands behind the door and opens it to let them all in. When he closes the door, his mom laughs at him. "Good morning, pumpkin."

Spencer rolls his eyes, but lets her ruffle his hair and hug him and kiss him, because she's his mom and he actually really misses those things. His dad pulls him in for a hug, too. Bob's mom says, "Hi sweetcheeks."

Spencer laughs. She asks, "Wanna go get dressed and then show us around the place?"

He gets them set up in the living room. "Bob's probably putting pants on. He'll be out in a minute."

He's pretty sure Bob's mom says something about him having been out for a while. Spencer just keeps walking. One does not feed the bears at a zoo. Bob's in the shower and Spencer just climbs on in with him. Like their bath they have a regularly sinful shower, more than large enough for the both of them, with a built in ledge upon which to sit and a completely clear frame, excellent for watching from the outside, if one should so choose. Amazingly, they actually make it out of said shower without getting distracted. Mostly, Spencer thinks, because there's nothing less sexy than knowing your parents are sitting two rooms over.

They throw on some clothes and then head back out to show off their brand-new adult-person domain. Spencer's mom is jealous of his kitchen, his father impressed by the studio. Bob's mom looks like she might be close to crying, but she doesn't say anything, so Spencer can't tell exactly. He's pretty sure it's from happiness, in any case.

"What time is the food due?" Bob asks.

"Jon and his parents and Pete and my guys are supposed to take care of that. So, if Jon has his way, noon, when it's supposed to be. If Pete, Ryan or Brendon get their way?"

"Yeah," Bob says and wanders off to start setting out the paper goods.

 

 

*

The food arrives at twelve fifteen, which is almost like noon, so Spencer figures Jon must have put down the rebellious masses. Spencer's mom gets to coddling Ryan and Brendon immediately. Spencer and Bob help Jon and Pete and Jon's parents lay the food out. Pete ends up taking a second trip out to the car with Spencer who asks, "How's it going?"

"I don't think they hate me," Pete asserts, which is sort of like optimism from him on this issue, so far as Spencer's concerned.

"You'd know," Spencer says. He's seen Jon's parents come into accidental contact with some of Jon's exes.

"I had an actual conversation with his dad about baseball. And I'm pretty sure I didn't sound like a complete moron."

"There you go."

"I'm better with basketball, but that's not his sport."

Spencer rubs at Pete's shoulder a bit.

"His mom said I was more handsome in person. I'm not sure if that means she thinks my pictures are ugly—"

"I think it means she was glad to finally meet you. You kinda put them off, Pete. With living in the same city, and owning our label, and all."

"Jon says it was about two years before your parents met Bob."

"Different city, different label. We had been trying, not avoiding it."

"Parents are sort of hit and miss with me. I look trashy at first glance. And I'm on a lot of magazine covers."

"Bob was sort of death-metal looking when I first started dating him. And on a lot of magazine covers. The sign of a good parent is one who trusts their kid enough to make good decisions. And Jon's parents are winners. Also, you don't look trashy at any glance, and if Jon heard you saying that he'd be heartbroken."

Pete smiles a little. "Yeah. Jon."

Spencer swallows back a laugh. "I'm glad it's going well. We gotta get back in there before they come out looking."

They haul trays out of the back of Jon's parents' SUV and head back inside.

 

 

*

Spencer introduces Ryan, Brendon, Jon and Pete to Bob's mom. She says, "They're just not as scary looking as Bob's crew."

"Only at first glance," he reassures her.

When she has her back turned, Brendon and Ryan _both_ stick their tongue out at Spencer. He shakes his head. "I don't even know who is the bad influence upon whom."

Pete laughs. "Can I take credit?"

"Always," Jon tells him. Spencer drags Pete off to meet his parents, since he, Joe, Patrick, Andy, Brian and Matt will be the only people at the party they haven't met, and Pete dates one of his band members.

Spencer's dad shakes Pete's hand and says, "Nice to meet you."

His mom kisses Pete's cheek and says, "So this is the cutie who makes Jonathan such a happy boy." She pats his shoulder. "Good on you, Peter." Pete _glows_.

Ray shows up with Joe, Brian and Matt. Patrick and Andy come around a little bit later. Spencer asks, "Sarah couldn't make it?"

"There had better be chocolate at this thing," Patrick says, quite stridently.

Spencer squeezes his arm. "And plenty of it."

JC, Gerard, Mikey and Frank all show up last, which surprises nobody. Gerard looks happy to be in Chicago. Spencer would laugh at him, but their entire house probably smells like sex, and he doesn't trust Gerard Way not to bring that up in front of Spencer's parents. Bob gives Frank a noogie and says, "About time. Let's eat."

 

 

*

Despite the fact that Frank's already seen all of them, Mikey shows him the stuff he made. Bob rubs a little at Mikey's shoulders and says, "You made my house nice."

Mikey ducks his head. "That was Ellen."

Bob musses his hair and leaves him to his delusions. Gerard has JC on his lap on the couch. Ryan and Spencer are taking up the extra spaces, chatting with them. Joe and Brendon are busy mocking Matt mercilessly, while Brian and Patrick check out the cabinetry. Brian, Bob knows, has been thinking about a house forever.

Jon and Pete are hanging out on the porch, where the parents have formed a core of solidarity. Jon is leaning against the house, his hand against Pete's back. Pete is talking with all three mothers. Jon and Spencer's dads are watching, clearly doing their best not to look amused. In Bob's opinion, they are failing miserably, but that's just Bob. Bob's mother breaks off from the conversation to head toward him. He leads her through the house, out to the backyard.

She makes him bend down for her so that she can give him a kiss. "You know I complain when all those tourists come in and want me to serve them—"

"Mom—"

"Hush you, I'm talking. But I don't mind it so much, not really. Because they're right, you know? You turned out the kind of kid a mom should have people wanting to meet her over."

"Yeah, well, that was all you."

She rolls her eyes. "Me and the television and a veritable mountain of microwave dinners."

"Mom."

"I'm just saying. You could have been trouble. But you weren't, ever."

"There were some times."

"Not big ones. Nothing that would outweigh this moment, that's for certain."

"You sure you don't want me to help—"

"You help, and no, I don't want anymore. A woman has to have her pride, all right?"

Bob sighs and leaves off. There will always be another time for this argument. Spencer finds them and says, "Oh, am I interrupting?"

Bob's mom pulls him outside and says, "Yes," even as she keeps a firm arm around his shoulders.

"Okay then," Spencer says, bumping hips with her. He looks over at Bob and smiles his fucking smile and Bob says, "Okay."


	5. The 3%

Jon goes and gets Pete Wentz before Brendon beats the shit out of him because a) Brendon is tiny, but anger-fueled, and b) the band is actually on Pete's label, and he'll regret it in the morning. They all will. Brendon's just nervous. They've never played a festival this big before, nothing even close. Jon thinks if they want to get asked back they should possibly not act like hooligans before they've even played. Also, Jon suspects that Pete really only deserves about a third of the blame for Brendon's advanced state of being pissed off. Brendon himself deserves a third, and Brendon's always taking on more than his fair share, so there's probably a goodly amount of self-disgust being wafted toward Pete, and Pete's got enough issues without the extra help.

Jon passes by Hurley on his way, who's clearly headed over and says, "I got it, okay?"

Hurley shrugs. "I'm gonna crush him with one fist if he touches Pete."

Jon sighs. Pete is easy enough to distract away, despite the fact that Jon thinks he's probably looking to get himself beaten up. Brendon and Pete would almost be perfect for each other if Ryan didn't win at being fucked up, and therefore claim Brendon's heart every time. The two of them are beautiful and Jon loves them without reserve or regard to any notions of propriety and if they asked for his help again he's pretty sure he wouldn't say no, but in order for all those statements to be true, he has to know them, and he does.

Proving his point, Pete says, even as he's following Jon for all the world like a deceptively well-behaved puppy, "I kinda deserve to get hit. And I don't want Urie to hate me forever."

"Give it time."

"I sort of suck at patience."

Jon nods. Pete does.

"Does Smith hate me, too?"

"It's pretty rare that Spencer hates anyone. You'd have to do something pretty special."

Pete says, "I slept with Urie's boyfriend."

"Yeah, we're pretty sure Ryan was a lot of the special in that particular situation."

Pete's shoulders hunch up. "Probably. Wouldn't be me."

Jon resists the urge to roll his eyes. Pete perks up a little bit, clearly caught by a new idea. "I don't suppose you'd hit me? You have band rights, if not boyfriend ones, and you look like you could do a pretty good job."

"Has it ever occurred to you," Jon asks idly, "that the things you want aren't necessarily the same things you need?"

"Plenty of times, I just have a hard time differentiating."

"Ever tried waiting long enough before making a decision to see if some of the answers might come clear?"

"I have a hard enough time watching the way Andy and Patrick make their decisions with, like, actually informed answers to the questions. I'm pretty sure doing it myself would kill me."

"But you've never tried."

"I've never tried heroin, either, it doesn't mean that the first time wouldn't be the last."

Jon just looks at him.

"Yeah, Patrick finds that to be stupid logic, too."

"Maybe you should let the others make your decisions for you, for a bit."

Pete says, "That's kind of asking a lot, don't you think?"

"I would do it for any of mine."

Pete's silent for a long time. When he finally speaks again he says, "It's sort of nice that they found you. Like Cinderella, or some shit like that."

Jon thinks that if Ryan or Brendon ever slipped on a glass heel it would break on their foot, drive glass into their soles. Then he realizes that Pete's metaphor maybe isn't so far off. "Your guys are pretty charming in their own right."

"I try not to take advantage. Knowing that I'm going to. In ways I don't mean."

"There are times when things are only going to get worse before they get better." It's clichéd, and Jon prefers to avoid that sort of thing, but there are also times when true is true is true.

Pete screws up his face. "Don't say that."

Jon doesn't take it back.

 

 

*

Pete tries to suck Jon off after the VMAs, but Jon just hauls him to his feet like he might have tripped, or something and asks, "You want some ice cream?"

Pete says, "I'm a vegan."

"No, sweetheart, you're not. I'll buy it from the grocery store, nobody'll have to know."

Pete struggles in Jon's grip, but Jon can feel him shaking, so he doesn't let go.

"Chunky Monkey?" Jon asks. "I like that one."

"Cherry Garcia," Pete says, like he's ashamed of it, and maybe he is. Pete seems to be ashamed of a lot of things he should probably just accept.

Jon stashes Pete in his hotel room and leaves a note for the guys not to go in there, not at all costs. He steals Zack, who informs him clearly that he expects to be bought ice cream in his own right. Jon says, "Well, yeah."

Zack says, "You're kinda easier than the others."

"Spencer totally lets you pick him up."

"I wasn't talking about Spencer."

Jon knows. He gets Cherry Garcia and Chunky Monkey and Phish Food and a bag of heavy-duty plastic spoons and lets Zack get himself a gallon of Breyer's mint chocolate chip. When he gets back Pete is exactly where he left him. Jon rolls the Cherry Garcia against the exposed back of his neck and Pete yells, "Fuck, motherfucker."

Jon grins, hands him the pint. Pete scowls, but peels open his spoils of war, holds his hand out for a spoon.

"What do we say?" Jon asks.

"I'll eat you out if you'll just pass me that spoon?"

Jon's un-impressed face is one of his very best. He knows, he had to practice it on William all the time. Pete sighs. "Or, please."

Jon rewards him. Pete takes tiny, quick bites, like he's afraid someone will notice. Jon does, but he's not going to yell at him for wanting comfort food, not going to make him feel stupid or undisciplined. Instead he offers, "Hey, you want some?" and holds out the other two options for consideration.

Cautiously, Pete sets aside the Cherry Garcia and takes the Phish Food. "You could have some of mine."

"Okay, maybe."

"I'm good, Walker. At the sex."

"I believe you."

"But you won't— Wait. You're not in love with Ross, too, are you? Or Smith? Because I'm pretty sure Smith is taken, too."

Jon finds it mildly entertaining in a sick sort of way that Brendon never enters Pete's mind. "I'm not suffering a grand unrequited passion for Spencer Smith."

Pete looks down, digs further into his ice cream. "Then—"

"Maybe I'm a virgin."

Pete's eyes go so wide that Jon knows he will have to reward himself later for not laughing. Then Pete says, "Or, maybe you're an asshole."

Jon grins. "You could always leave."

Pete picks the Cherry Garcia back up, muttering to himself between bites.

 

 

*

Pete falls asleep in the middle of a heated argument about who is better: Jon Stewart or Stephen Colbert. Jon has taken Stewart for two reasons: they have the same name, and Pete has a crush three miles wide on Stephen Colbert, so choosing him would sort of negate the ability to argue. Jon is not surprised by Pete's sudden drop into unconsciousness, because he hadn't really been making sense for about twenty minutes.

Jon picks him up—he's fucking heavy, easily heavier than Jon, but Jon spends a fair amount of time pulling Brendon off of shit, so it's pretty par for the course. He puts Pete on the bed and pulls the covers over him before going to crash on the couch. He wakes up to a pair of brown eyes on him, as tossed looking as the sheets on the bed.

"Morning, sunshine," Jon says. "How'd you sleep?"

"I don't bite," Pete says. "Not to the point of breaking skin, anyway."

"I've seen your videos," Jon says and stands up to go to the bathroom. He closes the door, since he really doesn't want the evident temptation of his dick being anywhere in Pete's sight. He brushes his teeth and splashes some water on his face and opens the door. Pete's still there. It's almost like progress. "Want some breakfast?"

"Coffee," Pete says, in a somewhat pleading tone.

"Sure." Jon orders two coffees, a stack of pancakes, some butter croissants and fruit. Spencer likes to yell at him about not eating enough fruit. Spencer mostly needs to yell at somebody about something that doesn't matter and Jon doesn't exactly want to disappoint him in that, but he also doesn't want to die of scurvy, especially not after Spencer's latest detailing of exactly what it does to a person.

When the food arrives, he splits it evenly onto two plates. Pete says, "I'm not gonna eat all this. I just wanted coffee."

Jon says, "Do your best, leave the rest."

Pete eats more than Jon does. Jon asks, "Where you guys off to?"

"Indiana? Maybe it was Iowa. Or Idaho. Could have been Idaho."

"Well, we've just covered three quarters of the continental United States in the space of a minute."

"I get the 'I' states confused."

"We're from an 'I' state."

"Good thing I can just follow Patrick home."

Yeah, okay, fair enough. "Wanna call me when you reach Idaho?"

"It really could be one of the other 'I' places. And why?"

"Why?"

"Why should I call you?"

Jon shrugs. "Tell me you got in. What you were up to on the bus. Because I'm a nice guy."

"I haven't made any decisions on that last part."

"I guess I'll know when my phone rings. Or doesn't."

Pete's face crinkles in uncertainty. "Guess you will."

 

 

*

Pete calls him. Jon's not as surprised as Pete sounds. "Know where you are now?"

"Boise," Pete says, the exclamation a fairly proud one for a guy in his mid-twenties. Jon sort of sympathizes, though. It's easy to get lost on a tour.

"Idaho for the win."

"Where are you?"

Jon looks out the window. "Somewhere with a lot of cows."

"By that description, we could be in the same place."

"I think we're further east than you are. How was your ride?"

"I beat Andy at poker and he accused me of cheating."

"Were you?"

"Tiny bit, yeah."

"You should say you're sorry."

"I'm afraid if I say it too much he'll start to think I don't mean it."

Jon's breath catches for maybe half a second. Long enough for Spencer to look up and frown concernedly. Jon waves his hand airily. Spencer looks at him for a just a moment longer and then takes him at his word. Jon says, "Hurley seems like he knows what you're about."

"Isn't that sort of the problem?"

"From your perspective, evidently so."

"You know what I did to Ryan and Urie, right?"

"I think you'd be pretty amazed at what I know about those two."

"Because Urie and Smith kinda don't like me right now."

"Good thing for you the members of this band all come with separate brains and decision-making capabilities."

"I am, actually, validly sorry about that. Urie didn't deserve that."

"No, but he and Ryan are surprisingly big boys."

"I was still the other man."

"And somehow, still not the only one in the room."

"Yeah. Yeah. The problem with Ryan is that he's so utterly fucking real."

"I'm not sure I wouldn't argue that that isn't the problem with you, but all right."

Pete is quiet for several minutes.

"Still there?"

"Yeah, sorry, just. Yeah."

"Why don't you go apologize to Hurley, and curl up with Stump for a bit?"

"Patrick's kinda pissed that I didn't say where I was going last night."

"You gotta not do that. Stump has enough trouble without having to think you're lying in a gutter somewhere. Say sorry to him too, and then cuddle."

"How do you know—"

"Because you're pretty fucking real," Jon interrupts, "You've just forgotten how to recognize it in yourself, so you keep trying to see it. Stump and Hurley and Trohman already see it, Pete. I see it."

"You're sort of a presumptuous little fucker."

"Yup." Jon is unconcerned.

"I guess I could—"

"Talk to you later," Jon says, and hangs up.

 

 

*

Pete texts Jon with, "come to the city of angels im throwing a party". Jon tries not to think too much about why he doesn't think before asking the guys if he can take a couple of days.

"Are we playing that day?" Brendon asks. Spencer hits Brendon upside the head.

"Ow."

"He wouldn't ask if we were, monkey-face."

Brendon makes a face that really doesn't live down the name-calling. Then he smiles at Jon, annoyance forgotten, "Fine by me."

Spencer says, "Go with G-d, my son."

Ryan finds him later and says, "LA, huh?"

And okay, maybe Jon should have remembered that before Ryan did the whole sleeping-with-Pete thing, he was a fanboy. Jon asks, "You want me not to go?"

Ryan hooks his left hand over his right shoulder and rubs. He does that in interviews. He does that when he's having a conversation he doesn't want to have. He pretty much started this, though, so Jon's going to see that it finishes. Finally Ryan asks, "Are you guys fucking?'

Jon's not sure that's really any of Ryan's business, but Ryan doesn't seem to have asked it out of morbid curiosity so much as an attempt at trying to figure this stuff out. "No."

Ryan says, "Oh."

Jon asks, "Are you and Brendon fucking?"

Ryan says, "Uh—" Then stops. "Oh. I see. I asked the wrong question."

Jon smiles at Ryan. Ryan smiles back, not even all that hesitant. It took forever for Jon to get that response, and he can sometimes be a little greedy about provoking it. Ryan asks, "Do you like him?"

Jon nods. "Is that okay?"

"I kinda wish I could be the kinda guy you'll be for him."

"Do you?"

"If there weren't Brendon."

"Big if."

"I wouldn't mind being the kind of guy you could be for Brendon, either."

"I'm not the kinda guy Brendon wants, Ryan."

"Still," Ryan says.

Jon shakes his head but doesn't say anything. "So LA's okay?"

Ryan rocks on his feet a bit. "Yeah, you should go."

"I'll bring you guys back gifts. Sunglasses and shit. You like sunglasses."

Ryan says, "We'll miss you."

Jon says, "Good."

 

 

*

Jon brings "thanks for inviting me gifts." For Hemmy, Jon brings a t-shirt. For Pete he brings interchangeable bass straps. Predictably, Pete is more excited by Hemmy's gift. Jon arrives the night before the big party and he and Pete's band spend the whole evening around Pete's kitchen table, talking about business and the way Chicago changes if they leave it for two seconds and they even let Jon indulge a moment of gut-deep Cubs loyalty--something Joe evidently shares. When they're all about to leave, Jon touches Patrick's elbow and says, "Hey, it's late, maybe crash here?"

Patrick starts to smile and then stops. He waits a second. "Jesus. No wonder Pete's been going out of his skin."

"Is that a yes?"

"Wouldn't miss a minute of it."

Jon grins. He locks the door to the guest room all the same. In the morning—early afternoon—he finds Pete and Patrick eating Cinnamon Toast Crunch in soymilk, which is pretty disgusting, so Jon settles for coffee and a piece of toast. Pete asks, "How'd you sleep?" like maybe Jon will say, "Would've been better with you."

Jon says, "That's a pretty awesome mattress."

Pete's face scrunches. "You've been living on buses too long."

Jon doesn't think he's been living on buses nearly long enough. "Wanna play in a little bit?"

"You brought your bass?"

"You go anywhere without yours?"

Next to Pete, Patrick shakes his head. Pete admits, "Well, no."

"All right then."

Patrick joins in, doesn't even look askance when Pete reaches out and strums Jon's strings, just once, but maybe that's because Jon says, "Didn't your mom teach you any manners?"

Pete grins, "They didn't stick."

"This is mine. You have your own."

Pete pouts. Jon stares him down without much stare involved in the process. Patrick helps out with a, "Seriously, let's play."

And once they've started, Pete moves, dances, smiles like he's safe. Jon figures that's one percent of the time down. Now for the other ninety-nine.

 

 

*

Pete--in what is either a moment of desperation and an attempt to evoke jealousy, or Pete just being Pete--takes home a chickadee from his own party. Jon stays in the guest room all the same. With the door locked. Said chickadee looks somewhat surprised to be where she is come morning and like she's probably not such a bad kid. Jon asks, "You need a ride home?"

She nods, looking apologetic. Pete's still sleeping, so Jon borrows his keys, leaves a note on the kitchen table and drives her nearly an hour to her quiet suburban neighborhood. He's tempted to ask how she even knew about the party, but he doesn't. She says, "Well, thanks." Jon waits to see that she gets inside safely.

When he comes back Pete is curled up on his sofa, damp hair sticking out of a hoodie. He blinks at Jon. "You came back."

"Dude, there was a note on the kitchen table. I borrowed your car."

Pete shrugs. "It's a car. And people lie, particularly when they don't have to say anything to your face."

Jon rubs a hand over his face. "Where's Hemmy?"

Pete _flies_ over the back of the couch. "Oh shit, I am the worst dog owner ever."

Jon doubts it. His doubt is proven valid when Hemmy is found to be happily prancing around the backyard. Pete picks him up, coddling him to his chest and murmuring things like, "Daddy didn't forget you."

Hemmy looks like he wouldn't mind being forgotten for a bit. Jon feels a little bit guilty for ruining his outdoor fun, even if it did distract Pete. Pete walks back inside with Hemmy, and Jon closes the door behind them. Pete says, "I would have taken her home."

Jon nods. "I know. Have you eaten yet?"

Pete says, "Um. I don't know that I have anything in the house."

"Want me to order in? I'll get you something that never had a face, not ever."

"Just because you have no willpower—"

Jon quirks an eyebrow.

"—doesn't give you the right to make fun of my dietary strictures."

"It pretty much does," Jon disagrees.

"There's a Mexican place I like. It makes me fajitas with just the veggies. Number's on the fridge."

Jon starts to head into the kitchen when Pete calls, "I would have stolen my car. I mean, if you'd—"

Jon waits.

"I would've dropped the girl on the side of the road and driven all the way back to my band."

Jon says, "Maybe that last, but not the first, and if we were the same person, we probably wouldn't be as interesting to each other, I'm thinking."

"I'm...interesting," Pete says like he's never heard the word.

"Infinitely," Jon reassures him, and goes to order them some food.

 

 

*

Pete says, "You need a dog. Then we could socialize him and Hemmy."

Poor Hemmy is pretty socialized, as far as Jon's concerned. "If I got a dog, Spencer would want to bring his retriever on tour, and I really don't have the right to tell him otherwise."

"Oh come on, you could take Smith."

Jon's actually not sure he could, or at least, not if Spencer were defending Ryan or Brendon. "I don't really want to take Spencer."

Across the bus, Spencer smiles at him, clearly clueless, but charmed nonetheless. Jon ambles over and squeezes Spencer, who sometimes just needs squeezing. Brendon gets in on the action with a flying tackle and Jon and Spencer both have to work to disentangle themselves, to get Brendon in a position where they can pet him. Once he's being petted, he settles quite nicely. Ryan, who has been watching, shakes his head and goes back to his writing.

"Smith needs tour dogs, is the problem. What kind of guy leaves his dogs?"

"Shut up, sweetheart."

Ryan snorts.

"Well, it's sad. You guys not having anything cuddly on the bus."

"Brendon works perfectly well, thanks."

Brendon—who clearly has no idea what's just been said about him—arches into Jon's hands and makes appreciative noises. "I do," he tells Jon. Jon scratches at the back of his neck and Brendon burbles a little. Pete says, "Now you're just trying to make me jealous."

"Stump not paying enough attention to you?"

"That's different, that's _Patrick_."

Jon waits.

"It's not 'cause you're straight, right? Because if you are, it's sort of an assholish thing, not telling me."

"I can provide signed affidavits that I am not, in fact, straight."

Brendon blinks up at him, smiling a self-satisfied grin. Jon smacks the top of his head lightly, and then rubs it when Brendon pouts. Spencer rolls his eyes.

"Oh. Okay."

"Maybe I'm just an old-fashioned gentleman."

"I'm starting to worry that that's the case." Pete sounds validly concerned.

"What's wrong Scarlett?"

"You know that movie ends unhappily, right?"

"She gets laid first, though."

Pete is silent for a second. "True."

"Not quite what you want anymore?"

"I didn't say that."

"Must be hearing things."

 

 

*

Pete takes up with Pink for a grand total of about a week, and it makes news rags from Bumfuck, North Dakota to Toyko. Jon calls him a couple of times until it becomes clear that Pete is actually screening him. Then he emails him with, "Could you pick up your phone? You're making me feel unloved."

Pete calls him within the hour. "She made me laugh."

"Laughter makes you live longer," Jon tells him.

"Well, that's good, since I'm gonna need it by the time you decide I'm worth fucking."

"I've long since made that decision."

Pete chokes on whatever he's drinking.

"Around the time I made the decision you were worth more than that. You seem to disagree on that aspect and while I like a good argument, there are some basic principles that I require myself to be in agreement on with the people I date, so we're having to give it some time.

"You kind of suck at waiting, so you're going to sleep with some—admittedly hot—people while the time is being given. As a male, I can appreciate that. As me, it's sort of annoying, and retards what little progress I make with you, but if you weren't worth it I wouldn't care, so I suppose I just have to get over that."

Pete's breathing is still a little bit wet and troubled by the end of this pronouncement. "Jon—"

"Whatever you're going to say is going to be wrong."

"I'm not the prize you're making me out to be. And it's sweet, that whole gentleman thing you're doing, but it's only gonna fuck with me, when you finally do what you're gonna do and then you come to your senses and I've got nothing left because you waited, you waited for all of me, and that's just not— You're a nice guy, okay, so I'm sort of asking you not to do this. For me."

"You know what part of the gentlemen's creed is?"

"That club wouldn't have me."

"We're not assholes."

"I said you were a nice—"

"You have a way of not saying what you mean even as you're telling the truth as you know it."

"I swear, I'll beg, if that's what it's gonna take."

"You can beg all you want. Until you prove to me that you don't want somebody who sees more than the art and hears more than just the words, we're at an impasse."

"Please don't do this. Please, Jon. Please don't."

"It was good talking to you. Mind if I call later in the week?"

"Yes," Pete says.

"Really?"

"No. I hate you."

"All right, you have a good week and I'll talk to you then."

 

 

*

Panic ends up playing a show in Oakland while FOB is recording in LA, so Jon rents a car and makes the drive out. He tells Pete he's coming, because Pete deals with enough surprises from Jon purely in his behavior, and shouldn't have to put up with unannounced house guests, even if it will make Jon's life easier to just sort of steamroll over Pete and his issues. This isn't about easy, and Jon knows himself, he wouldn't want it if it were.

Pete says, "Hi. I cleaned for you."

"I'm feeling pretty special," Jon tells him, setting his stuff neatly next to the couch.

"Well, I hired someone to come and clean, so that you wouldn't have to dredge through my crap."

"Trying to make me feel less special?"

"Trying to be honest."

"Maybe if you stopped trying so hard full stop we'd be getting somewhere."

"I sort of doubt it."

"I know, I'm the one with the good ideas in this relationship. You're the one who writes the songs about it later."

Pete laughs at that, and if the sound is a little bit unbalanced, it isn't hurt or frenzied. Jon finds the number in the phone book to order groceries and does so. He makes dinner, allowing Pete to lick the utensils and clean the dishes but not help much other than that. Pete seems like the kind of guy who could set his own kitchen to burning and not realize it until he was standing on his front lawn, wondering where the house went. Assuming he got out in time. Jon thinks this might be a big assumption.

Jon makes roast potatoes with rosemary and mint sprigs, a butternut squash soup and a basil infused salad. Pete eats thirds and says, "I think you might have missed your calling."

"Maybe, but I sort of really love the bass. Am I depriving the world?"

Pete looks conflicted. "You're pretty good at the bass, too."

"Kind of you."

Pete helps him clear the table and then John entices him in to a game of trivial pursuit. They both fail miserably at the game, despite their rivaling knowledge of pop culture and Pete's bizarre memory for historical trivia. Jon whips Pete's ass at the sports category, but the others cause them to go round and round until they call it a draw and Jon goes to set himself up in the guest room. Pete asks, "You sure you don't—"

"You really wanna finish that sentence and have me tell you what you know I have to tell you?"

There's a long moment of consideration. "See you in the morning."

"Can't wait."

 

 

*

Jon doesn't make it to morning. He would—Pete's guest bed is all sorts of comfortable and he sleeps in a bunk most of the time—only he wakes to screaming. The screams are violent, hysterical, and high-pitched. Jon throws the covers off, makes his way to Pete's room, and turns on the lights. Pete's thrashing and Jon knows he's going to be lucky if he doesn't end up with a shiner or something worse. Pete's compact and, in this instance, dangerous.

Jon takes a breath and does his best to capture Pete's arms while saying, "Wake up, Pete. Time to come back, sweetheart. Come on. Pete, Pete."

He takes a knee to the stomach, which knocks his breath away for a moment. When he has it back he just says Pete's name louder, keeps calling to him until there is a distinct, abrupt stiffening in Pete's limbs and his eyes fly open. He blinks in pain at the light, confusion at his sudden waking, and the backwash of leftover terror. Jon says, "Shh, you're safe."

Pete goes limp as suddenly as he woke. He tries to take his wrists back and—in an almost surreal reversal of their consistent battles over the privilege of touching and being touched—Jon refuses to let go. He pulls Pete into a sitting position so that he can slip behind him, support himself with the backboard. He arranges Pete in the crook of his legs, crosses an arm over his stomach, the other threading in the fingers of Pete's right hand. Pete says, "I'm fine. Sorry, sometimes I—"

"It's okay," Jon says, and rocks him a bit.

"You change your mind?" Pete asks after a few seconds, and the question is so tired that Jon actually thinks he might cry, for fuck's sake.

He pulls it together. "No, Pete. You were having a nightmare. You want me to get you some water? You were screaming for a while there."

"It's not a big deal. I've had them my whole life."

Jon moves the hand on Pete's stomach to caress at his skin a little bit. "Sit tight, I'm gonna go get that water."

"No, could you—" Pete literally bites his lip to get himself to shut up.

"What is it?" Jon squeezes his hand lightly.

"Nothing, it's fine. Water, great."

"Pete."

"Just fucking _go_ , all right?"

Jon catches the emphasis. He asks, "You want me to stay like this for a little bit longer?"

"Fuck you," Pete says.

"Eloquent, but I take your point." Jon settles back, taking Pete with him, holding just a little bit tighter. "It's okay to ask for what you want."

"You always say no."

"To one, specific, repeated request. It doesn't translate to the things you want in general." Perhaps it is the final onset of aftershock, or the significance of the permission—Jon doesn't know—but Pete begins to quake in his arms, large, racking shakes. Jon says, "All right, okay, okay sweetheart," and holds on with all he's got. When the shaking finally subsides, small tremors run through Pete and Jon lays him down, still behind him, keeping him steady. Jon says, "I'm gonna go get that water now," and Pete doesn't say a word. Jon tells him, "I'll be right back."

Once he's free of the bedroom, he _runs_ for the damn fridge, making it back in record time. He unscrews the bottle and makes Pete elevate just enough to get some of the water in him, and then sets it on the nightstand. He curls over Pete, tucks Pete safely against him. Pete mumbles, "You're always coming back," clearly three-quarters of the way to sleep.

Jon says, "That pretty much sums things up."

 

 

*

Jon wakes to a hand on his stomach and the sight of Pete fixated on said hand.

"'Morning," Jon says, and doesn't move the hand, because Pete isn't doing anything wrong and he should know he has some rights.

"I hurt you," Pete says in a tiny voice.

Jon looks down and sees now that Pete's fingers are resting lightly against a considerably sized bruise. He's glad he hasn't tried to move yet, because he's probably going to need to cover for any discomfort when he gets around to that, and the reminder is appreciated. "Hey, lay back down, okay?"

Pete looks thrown by the request, like he's not sure what it has to do with anything. Jon counts it as progress that he doesn't immediately take it as a sign of Jon wanting apology sex. Pete lays down facing him, hand still where it was, as though through his own repentance he might be able to heal Jon. Jon isn't really the one who needs healing, but Pete's guilt isn't helping him any in that regard. Jon says, "You didn't mean it, Pete. You weren't even awake."

"I never fucking mean it, Jon. I'm not—" Pete shakes his head, once.

"You're not bad," Jon finishes for him. "Or mean, or worthless, or dirty."

Pete takes his hand back and curls up, his face going into the pillow.

"Uh uh," Jon says, and brings Pete's face back into the light with two fingers. "I'm not upset."

"No, you don't do upset."

"I was upset last night."

Pete frowns.

"Worried. Concerned. Upset."

"I told you, I've always had them."

"Some people have always had congenital birth defects, it doesn't make them not a problem."

"I'm not defective." Pete thinks for a second. "Not like that."

"You've been left to your own devices for too long."

" _Don't_ talk about my guys."

"I wasn't. Your guys can only do so much. Trust me, that lesson I've learned." Jon is careful not to let a damned thing show on his face.

Pete breaths in deep, then out. "Ryan's a handful, huh?"

"Don't talk about _my_ guys."

"Yeah," Pete says. "Maybe I am mean."

Jon shakes his head. "I think you're sad. There's a difference."

"I can't tell."

"I know," Jon says. "You're too close to the line."

"I did hurt you, though. That's— There's a bruise."

"I can take what you dole out, Wentz."

Pete's eyes slip shut for a moment. Jon says, "Let's sleep some more, yeah?" but he thinks Pete's already there.

 

 

*

Jon finds tea in the cabinets. It's rooibos, rich and heady, and Jon wonders if maybe Andy sometimes puts things in Pete's cabinets on the off chance that he'll use them. He won't let Pete put sugar in his, since it doesn't need it, and neither does Pete. Pete glowers at him but Jon just toasts some oatmeal bread, spreads a little strawberry jam atop it and hands it to Pete, who crunches a fairly large portion of it immediately into his mouth. Pete talks with his mouth full. "You come, you don't do anything, and I still don't like the part where you leave."

"I made you dinner," Jon points out. "And breakfast." He doesn't mention the nightmare thing. Jon plays fair. Or, well, he plays nice. Fair isn't generally useful when it comes to Pete.

"I meant—"

"I know, but I like to pretend you want something else out of me."

Pete's jaw drops open in a second of unguarded surprise. "What?"

"I figure it could happen. I may not be quite as sleek as Ryan or come-hither gorgeous as Mikey, but I think I have my own charm. It's a long-shot, sure, but I'm working at the part where you look at me and see something other than my as-of-yet-unviewed cock." Jon keeps his tone light. He's not mad. He doesn't blame Pete for the ways he's found to keep his feet under him. Pete's looking at him like he's an alien, or, at the very least, sprouting a head from his stomach.

"Drink your tea," Jon says. Pete looks down at the tea, clearly having forgotten about it. He sips gingerly, as if it might protest its own digestion. Jon drinks his own slowly, watching Pete. Pete is worth watching, his dark eyes often unsure but brave enough to keep asking questions, his hands sturdy in their grip, as if he has learned how to hold onto things.

Jon asks, "Wanna come visit me next? It'll make me feel special."

"Not sure how Smith and Urie are gonna take that."

"They trust me to make my own friends." Then, "I'll protect you."

Pete flips him off. Jon smiles the smile he knows damn well is charming. Finally Pete says, "It's that I would take what I could get with you."

"So that's a yes?"

"I'll find you."

Jon thinks it's gonna be the other way around, but he realizes that in this specific instance, Pete is probably right. "I'm taking that as a solid oath. It's a matter of honor, now, Wentz."

"The other guys are rubbing off on you. You were cooler before they co-opted you into their missing role."

"I know," Jon says happily.

"Yeah," Pete sighs.

 

 

*

Pete does find him. He finds him in Atlanta, Georgia which seems pretty far away from anything pertinent so when Pete asks, "Feeling special?" all cocky and mostly hesitant—somehow at once—Jon says, "Yes," and makes sure he sounds certain. He does.

Pete holds up the most complicated catnip contraption Jon has ever seen in his life. "I brought a gift."

Jon says, "Do me a favor and give it to Brendon. He's easy when it comes to Killer."

Pete looks hopeful. "Really?"

There's a knock on Jon's door and Jon puts out a quick prayer that it's Ryan. It's Spencer. "Um, hey," Jon says, and stands in the doorway.

Spencer rolls his eyes. Shouts, "Hey Pete."

Jon blinks at him. Actually blinks. There's not a hell of a lot that surprises him these days. Spencer looks at him evenly, and Jon feels a little bit like a dick. Spencer's probably someone he should be trusting, particularly when he knows Spencer knows what Jon wants from something. He steps back a little bit.

"Spencer," Pete says, obviously trying to sound casual.

"How was your flight?"

"Turbulent," Pete says. Jon doesn't think he's talking about the flight here, today.

Spencer says, "Suck. Look, Brendon and Ryan and I were gonna check out the Mexican place down the street, because even though I told Ryan it isn't gonna taste like home he's got his mind made up, and honestly, he eats his shit with so much spice I'm not sure it'll make a difference, so if you guys wanna join, we're meeting downstairs in ten."

Pete says, "Um—"

"I'm pretty sure they'll have veggie stuff," Spencer tells him.

"No, uh—"

Spencer looks at him, eyes calm, waiting for him to finish. Pete scratches at a spot behind his ear and smiles. "Mexican, sounds good."

"Okay then." Spencer brushes past Jon as he's leaving. Jon thinks, _if it wouldn't get me killed by My Chem and end any chances of me bagging Pete Wentz, I would totally make out with you right now, Spencer Smith._

He'll have to figure out a different way of saying thank you later. Pete asks, "What the hell did you tell them?"

"That we had married in secret and it was a done deal, so they had best be supportive."

Pete stutters for a moment and then laughs. "Who the fuck are you, Jon Walker?"

Jon smiles slow and easy. "Someone who's maybe starting to work for you." He turns around and goes to hunt up his flip-flops so that Pete doesn't have to come up with an answer, and he doesn't have to hear it, whatever it is.

 

 

*

Spencer pushes Pete into the side of the booth with Jon, and squeezes Ryan between Brendon and himself across from the two of them. At this rate, Jon is going to have to bear Spencer Smith's children. Or at least find him an adequate surrogate. Someone of whom Bob will approve. And Mikey and Frank and Gerard and Ray and… Sometimes Jon gets himself in over his head.

Brendon has buried himself in the menu, so Pete has to tap his hand to get his attention. Brendon looks up, his eyes wary and shuttered but not mean, which is something, and Jon wishes he weren't so fucking in love with Brendon fucking Urie. The universe has no sense of fairness.

Pete says, "I got Killer Queen a present," and puts the toy on the table.

Brendon looks at it. And looks. Finally he asks, "Are there instructions? Because it looks kind of complicated."

"Yeah, I had no clue what the hell it did either," Pete admits and turns the package over. "But see, there's a diagram."

Brendon sits up a little so that he can hunch further over the picture. His head is fairly close to Pete's. "Ooo. She has to get _inside_ it."

"Yeah, and see, you can dangle—"

"Yeah, she'd have to, like, hunt it—"

"Kill it."

Brendon nods excitedly, "Totally."

Pete pulls back a little when Brendon actually looks up and he's smiling a small smile, which is Brendon's peace branch, Jon knows. Pete smiles too, but it's a smile of mostly teeth and nerve. Brendon stiffens slightly and Jon's stomach flips until he realizes that Ryan has put his hand somewhere on Brendon's back, really on his back, not his shirt. Another second and Brendon loosens, his smile widening. Next to him, Ryan's eyes are large and sweet and his smile is a deep, hidden thing, the curve of his lips only the scratching of its surface. Spencer asks, "I don't suppose we could be ready to order any time, oh, this evening?"

Pete says, "I know what I want."

Ryan rolls his eyes. "It's not hard for a vegetarian." He goes back to paying attention to his menu.

"Vegan," Pete says.

"Yeah, right," Ryan says, not bothering to look up. Jon suppresses a snort of agreement. Spencer doesn't. Pete pouts. Brendon ignores all of them.

When Brendon closes his menu he goes back to looking at the diagram and says, "It's a cool gift."

Pete shrugs. "I, y'know, try."

Brendon looks up and stares at Pete for a bit. Pete holds his gaze, even if he looks like he would rather be doing anything, _anything_ else. Finally Brendon says, "Yeah. I'm pretty sure we all do."

Underneath the table, Jon risks soothing a hand over Pete's knee. Pete stares down at it like he's not sure where it came from, but when the pieces seemingly come together, he stills under the touch, allows it without pressing for more. Spencer nods in agreement while still looking at his menu. Ryan leans a little closer to Brendon. Pete looks on with something that might be envy, but then, Jon probably does too.

 

 

*

By the time they get back, the gummi bears and Hershey's Special Dark bars that Jon asked for have arrived. Pete says, "I really like the green ones."

Jon separates them out and gives them all to Pete in one big pile. They surf the web together, Pete having an enormous store of bizarre-ass bookmarks he's been saving up to show Jon, and then catch the Daily Show and the Colbert Report. Jon heads off to brush his teeth after that and Pete tags after him, unpacking his own toothbrush and joining in. When they're finished, John heads to the couch and Pete stands in the middle of the room, his hands crossed over his chest, tucked into his underarms. Jon figures he can meet him half way. "Something you want?"

"It's a king-size bed," Pete says, somewhat belligerently.

Jon waits with calm eyes, calm body posture.

"I wouldn't— If you slept in it with me, I wouldn't do things you didn't want me to do."

Jon nods, and heads toward the bed. "Okay."

Pete follows him slowly, clearly still surprised to have gotten his way. He climbs in under the covers facing Jon. He asks, "Is this because I was nice to your band tonight?"

Jon frowns a little bit.

"Because it's not exactly that I think a system of rewards is a bad idea—better than what my parents came up with—but I tend to fuck things up without meaning to a lot, and you haven't shown me what the punishments are like yet, and I'd sort of like to know. Ahead of time."

Something Jon can't even begin to identify burns, _throbs_ inside his stomach, his kidneys. "You're not a child, Pete. And I'm in no position to be either rewarding or punishing you."

"Patrick says I'm like one, sometimes. It's not...he doesn't mean it as an insult, he just— I don't always think before I act. Or mostly, mostly I don't think before I act. It worries him. He doesn't know how to protect me."

Jon nods. "I can see how that would be hard at times. But that's the part where you're not a child. That you can't always be protected."

"It sort of sucks."

"Yeah," Jon agrees.

"This isn't a reward?"

"You asked. You wanted this. And I could give it to you. Maybe it's a reward for asking, but only in the sense that I can help you out when I know you need help." Jon tries not to let his exasperation show. It's not with Pete so much as with the situation.

"And you don't do punishments?"

"If you piss me off or hurt me, I'm going to tell you, and give you the chance to either apologize or tell me why you did it or both. I'd like the same consideration from you, if possible."

Pete takes a few deep breaths. "I can try."

"Good enough."

"Really?"

"I don't think I need as much from you as you seem to need from yourself."

"That makes me sort of sad."

"Only because you can't see how much of you there really is right now."

Pete asks, "You're sure you're not just an optimist?"

Jon smiles. "Optimists aren't always wrong."

Pete asks, "If I kissed you, just one kiss, just...just because you're smiling and hot with it and I really, I want to taste, I want— Would you push me away?"

Jon says, "Kiss me, sweetheart," and Pete doesn't wait for him to change his mind.

 

 

*

Jon comes to Pete next because despite the juvenile nature of it, he's pretty sure they're at the point where things need to be a fair one-to-one trade. Jon catches the Providence show, watches Pete peel back so many layers of himself Jon has to wonder where he hides the blood. Watches Pete kiss and coddle Patrick who probably would give himself to Pete if he could but Jon has come to realize that Patrick validly doesn't like the cock. It's sort of tragic for Patrick, but Jon's not going to be looking any gift horses in the mouth.

Afterward Pete is so intoxicated on show-adrenaline that he can barely form sentences. Trohman offers Pete a joint, Hurley smacks Trohman upside the head, Patrick says softly, "He's not usually this bad. He was sort of excited by you coming to see the show."

"Sort of" is probably an understatement. Jon says, "He seems happy."

Patrick looks at him assessingly. "He can be, sometimes."

Jon would say something to that, but Pete has bounded over, is asking a question that Jon's pretty sure he was in the middle of before he even opened his mouth. Jon ignores the question, says, "Hi."

Pete's smile is a thing of such utter brilliance, so intimate and rough and ageless that Jon can barely see for it. Pete says, "Did you hear that part of Afterlife?"

Jon knows exactly which part he means. "Yeah, that was..." Jon grins.

Pete nods excitedly and jumps onto Patrick's back. "Patrick lets me steal the show."

Patrick lets him climb a bit. "You going out, buddy?"

"Maybe. Wanna go out?" Pete asks.

Patrick is all but nodding his head at Jon. Jon wasn't going to say no. "Where are you taking me?"

Before they leave, Patrick tells Jon, "Look, I realize it's not always possible, but the less he talks to reporters, generally the better."

That's sort of Jon's motto in life so he makes the sign of the Boy Scout and nods solemnly. Patrick shakes his head, "I don't know where the hell Panic found you, but someone must really fucking like that band." Jon thinks someone probably really likes him, too.

Pete takes him somewhere with driving beats and strobe lights. Jon orders himself a Jack Daniels and gets a virgin piña colada for Pete who looks sort of surprised. "I love this drink."

"I have a good instinct for these things." Also, if Jon is very lucky, he can maybe get Pete to kiss him in the right way. Jon likes the taste of pineapple, straight or on someone else. Jon lets Pete dance with whomever he wants, doesn't give Pete the advantage of acting jealous when girls will press their breasts to him, rub up against his crotch. Jon isn't sure whether this is predictable or not, but Pete comes back to him and they dance like two guys in a club, two guys likely to get caught on camera in a club.

When he pours Pete into the cab most of the adrenaline has burned off but Pete is still smiling at Jon. Jon says, "I would sort of like to kiss you, because I had a good time tonight, and you seem happy to see me, and I like the way you smile."

Pete laughs. "You think you have to ask?"

"I think you need to know you have the right to say no."

Pete starts to laugh some more and then stops. "What would happen if I did? Say no?"

"I wouldn't kiss you." That seems sort of self-evident to Jon, but if Pete needs to hear it, that's fine too.

"Right, I mean, after that?"

"After I didn't kiss you?" Jon is maybe a bit confused. Pete nods.

Jon's about to ask for clarification when it hits him. Oh. "What would you want to happen?"

Pete looks down at his knees.

"I won't laugh. Or tell anyone. Or use it against you."

Pete looks up at him again and Jon can tell that words mean nothing in this instance. He's really not expecting an answer, not expecting Pete to hand over that level of trust when Pete tells him, "I wouldn't want you to go find someone else."

Softly, Jon says, "Then I wouldn't do that."

Slowly, slowly Pete answers, "I'd like for that, too. For you to kiss me. I'd really like that."

They're at the hotel by this point, so Jon pays the cab driver and takes Pete up to his room. As soon as the door is closed behind them, Jon cups Pete's face in his hands, dips his tongue just a bit into Pete's mouth. Pete's tongue presses back, curious, eager, and Jon lets him explore, but he uses his own tongue to keep things somewhat slow, to remind Pete of exactly whom he's kissing. Jon stands and kisses Pete until he cannot feel his tongue, until he has forgotten how a normal breathing pattern goes. Then he pulls back, and licks his lips and says, "Thank you."

Pete's eyes are dazed, hazy. Jon kisses him once more, chastely, and says, "Go take a shower."

Pete doesn't wait to be told twice.

 

 

*

They've settled into a pattern of seeing each other, of making time for each other, of tuning their basses together and kissing for hours—full-on hours—at a time and eating breakfast together and mostly being friends with the promise of more when Pete calls and says, "The thing is, this time I want you to hear it from me, not from some newspaper."

And that's progress, but the Yfke Sturm thing is not. Now, Jon has never been in a room with Yfke Sturm, but he's a smart guy and he can surmise that legs that run roughly a marathon's length to just the knee are pretty fucking enticing in a person. It's not as if he and Pete are dating. It's not as if he's ever asked Pete to stop touching other people. He hasn't. He won't. That's something Pete needs to decide on his own. Needs to decide Jon's worth the effort.

Jon says, "Thanks for calling," and avoids the newspapers, television, internet and his bandmates for three days until Spencer comes to him with eyes that are too blank to be anything but hurt.

Jon says, "Yeah, okay, I was kind of an asshole there."

"Could you just, um— Could you maybe mention to Ryan that you're not upset with us?"

Jon gets drunk that night, nurses himself through the hangover the next morning and goes to Ryan when he's pretty sure he doesn't look like he's done something Ryan's father would have done in this very situation. Brendon smiles upon seeing him, the smile Brendon uses when he's got nothing else, absolutely nothing else and he talks a mile a minute and Jon can tell it's giving Ryan a headache, but Ryan just lets him talk, because that's evidently easier than listening to anything Jon might have to say.

Jon finally says, "I was just licking my wounds in private," in the middle of Brendon's sentence when he validly can't follow Brendon's thought patterns any more. He can always follow Brendon. Even when Brendon can't follow Brendon. Brendon stops talking. Ryan says, "Oh."

Brendon says, "Okay, I realize I'm about the last person on earth who should be giving anyone relationship advice, especially _this_ relationship advice, but has it occurred to you that maybe you should say something? About what you'd like? Because far be it from me to stick up for Pete Wentz and all, but he sort of called you, Jon. Like he thought you had a right to know."

Jon thinks that might be the issue, that Pete _knows_ he had a right to know, knew it when he probably smiled that fucking too-perfect, too-surface, too-not-Pete smile at some girl with too many fucking consonants in her name and unreasonably perfect skin. Next to Brendon, Ryan keeps his mouth shut, but his lips tremble slightly. Jon runs a hand over his face. "Maybe."

After dinner that night, Spencer asks, "You gonna get drunk again?"

Jon looks at him because Jon totally did that in the privacy of his own room and didn't bother the rest of them with it, because he wouldn't, he _wouldn't_. Spencer's eyes are rimmed and tired and Jon has to ask, "Tell me you didn't call and bitch him out. Please, Spence, tell me."

Spencer shakes his head. "But I might have gotten into a _huge_ fight with Mikey Way about it, causing my boyfriend to have to stop speaking to me for a little bit in order to save his band."

"Fuck. I'll call Mikey and patch things up tomorrow, okay?"

"Don't. That was my own fault. I probably said some inappropriate shit that you most likely would have hit me for."

"I don't hit you guys."

"I was being hyperbolic."

"I'd sort of like you not to be."

"Jon."

"I'll stop. I'm done. I'm done. I'll call him and we'll talk and I'll figure out where to go from here, and—"

"Jon."

"What? What, Spencer?"

"We don't know how to help you. None of us. And you fucking hate it when you can't figure that out with one of us, so could you just respect that we're lost and probably scared, here? We can't attack him, not really, and we can't protect you and we have nothing. If you could give us something, if there were anything—"

Jon pulls Spencer to him, holds him so tight he knows Spencer can't breathe, but Spencer just allows it, just holds back. When Jon finally lets go he says, "I don't like easy, but sometimes I wish I wasn't always trying for impossible."

Spencer nods. "Yeah."

"I don't know what to do for me, or I would tell you. I would let you."

"Okay. If you could maybe just remember that we're here. And not just as— We're not always the people you have to fix. I know you like us that way, but there's the other parts, there have to be the other parts."

"I know, Spence. I know."

Spencer says, "If you wanna get drunk again, I can stay. Not after tonight, no more. But one more time, I'll stay."

Jon says, "Would you stay if I didn't get drunk?"

"If you have to ask that, things are worse than I thought."

"I'm just tired."

Spencer goes to turn down the bed.

 

 

*

Pete shows up with flowers—fucking _flowers_ —and an expression so scared Jon says, "Sit down before you pass out."

Jon takes the flowers and puts them in the window. They're pretty and he knows they were expensive and Pete is in LA and Jon can't be as mad as he really wishes he were. Jon turns back to Pete who has curled up by this point and is looking at Jon like he expects to have to turn right around and head home. He says, "I'm sorry."

"I know," Jon says, and sighs. "I know."

"I want to tell you that I won't—"

"Please don't," Jon says.

Pete nods, bites his lip. Jon walks over and rescues the lip with his finger. It's bitten nearly to the point of bleeding. He frowns and asks, "If I told you you were forgiven, what would you hear?"

Pete's eyes slide downward in thought. He looks back up. "Is this a trick question?"

"No." But Jon already has his answer from that.

"I... That you had forgiven me?"

"What does that _mean_ , Pete?"

Pete's fingers tighten around his legs. "That you're not mad anymore?"

"I wasn't mad in the first place. I was hurt."

"That you're not hurt anymore?"

Jon sits down in a chair across from Pete and says, "All right. Different question. Do you feel forgiven?"

Pete just looks at him. "Jon."

"Answer the question."

"I don't understand the question."

"Okay." Jon thinks. "Do you even know what forgiveness feels like?"

"Patrick. Andy. Joe."

"And what do they do that allows you to feel that way?"

"They yell."

Jon raises an eyebrow. "They yell?"

"Because I've done something wrong. And then it's done and I know that they've gotten that stuff out, the anger, or the hurt or whatever. I know... Sometimes I want them to hurt me a little back, y'know? So that we're even."

"And they do? They hurt you?"

"Not hurt hurt. Not like I do. But I don't like being yelled at, so it's helpful. It's punitive. And then, after, I can believe that it's over."

"That's—"

"Fucked up, I know." Pete goes back to biting his lip.

"I was going to say 'logical'."

"Oh."

"You should listen to me some of the time, you know? I say interesting things." Jon keeps his voice light, if serious.

"I listen," Pete says. He sounds like he wants Jon to believe that. Jon generally believes Pete, maybe even when he shouldn't.

"I want to try something," Jon says.

"Anything."

"We're going to try it once, and if it doesn't work, we'll try something else. All right?"

"Until what?"

"Until we find something that works."

"Works for what?"

Jon shakes his head, moves to sit on the edge of the bed. He says, "C'mere."

Pete comes to stand in front of him, and Jon puts his hands to the button of Pete's jeans. Underneath his fingers, Jon can feel Pete's torso tremble. Jon undoes the button and the zipper and pushes both pants and boxers down around Pete's thighs. Pete takes a breath, "Jon—"

But Jon just pulls Pete down, settles him face down over his lap, which causes Pete to say, considerably more frantically, "Jon—"

"Hush."

Pete hushes. Jon rubs a bit at the small of Pete's back, but by this time, Pete's actively shaking under his hand, so Jon puts one hand on Pete's neck and brings the other one down on the curve of his ass. Hard. Pete makes a bitten off sound.

"You can make noise," Jon says, and hits him again, this time on the line bisecting ass from leg. Jon waits until about the fifth or sixth hit—when Pete is actively squirming—to ask, "Why am I doing this, Pete?"

Pete yelps a little at the smack that follows the question, "I— Because I cheated!"

"No," Jon says, and goes in for two more smacks. "Try again."

"Um. Ow, oh. Um. Because I hurt you?"

Another volley of smacks. "No. Again."

"Because— Because I'm dirty?"

Jon sharpens the smacks despite the fact that his hand has really begun to hurt and Pete's already not going to be sitting for days. "Definitely not. Again."

Pete is panting, sobbing. The words, "I don't know," are broken and desperate. "I don't know. I'm sorry."

Jon applies one more smack. "Because you said you needed it. That's why, Pete."

"I said...?" Pete sounds dazed.

"That you needed to be hurt. To even things out a bit. I don't want to yell at you. Patrick and Andy and Joe can do that because they're your guys and they know how to avoid fucking you up more that way. This I know will heal." Jon slips his hand underneath Pete's shirt, runs his knuckles along the cord of Pete's spine.

Pete shivers, but there is a looseness to it that wasn't there before. Jon says, "Breathe."

Pete draws a breath in, and as he lets it out, he sinks further onto Jon. Jon laughs a little, pets the back of Pete's head with the hand that was at his neck. He draws Pete up then—Pete mumbles, "Sleepy,"—and Jon says, "I know. Just a little bit longer."

He takes Pete to the bathroom and undresses him before setting him on the toilet so that Jon can undress. He runs the shower water lukewarm and draws Pete in with him. Pete hisses as the water hits his ass, but then relaxes as the relative coolness draws out some of the heat. Jon waits until he begins to shiver and then turns the water off, dries them both. He finds pajamas in Pete's overnight bag and gets Pete dressed before slipping into a pair of boxers himself. He gets in bed with Pete and lets Pete curl up into him, lips pressing at Jon's collarbone.

Jon asks, "Better?"

Pete whispers, "Forgiven."

Jon kisses his forehead and says, "Yes. Yes."

 

 

*

Jon doesn't recognize the number when the call comes through, but it's a Chicago number so he takes the chance, says, "Hello?"

"Walker?"

"Depends."

"Yeah, fair enough, it's Patrick."

"Oh, hi."

"Stole your number off Pete's Sidekick."

"Does he know?"

"No."

"Are you gonna tell him?"

"Probably."

Jon considers the possible reasons for that qualification. Finally he asks, "What's on your mind?"

"Look, Walker, it's not that I'm all that judgmental about kink, because I seriously couldn't be in a band with Troh if that were the way it was, but did you— Did you hit Pete?"

Jon runs a hand over his face. "Believe me when I say I'm not trying to avoid the question, but I seriously have to ask what makes you ask before I answer."

There's hesitation before Patrick says, "He didn't sit down for a couple of days after he came back."

"How did he seem, y'know, in his head?"

"He spent most of the time he usually spends sitting bouncing. And he was kinda...unusually helpful. Which, okay, not that I mind, not if it's just you making him happy, but if you're— He doesn't need reprogramming. And he's been beaten enough for one lifetime."

Jon remembers what Pete felt like under his hands, shuddering and terrified that whatever Jon did it wouldn't be enough, has a flash of going further, of blood and pain. Jon swallows back bile.

"Walker?"

"I didn't beat him."

"I didn't really think—"

"Did you ask him? Did you ask him what I did?"

"He said you did what he needed you to do."

"How did he sound?"

"He sounded...relaxed, I guess. No, relieved. Relieved. But Pete's reactions aren't always the best barometer of, well, anything."

Okay, Jon can see how that would be true. "He said that when you guys are angry you yell at him, and then everyone can move on."

"He likes limits. Or, he likes knowing that people give a crap enough to provide them."

"Yeah. He wanted me to yell at him."

"You didn't want to? He kinda sorta cheated on you, man."

"I thought it was pretty possible I'd hit a vein that way. Then what? Sit there and watch him bleed out? Watch him stay, thinking maybe I could help, even as he did?"

Patrick is quiet for a long time. "I see your point."

"If he'd gotten up, jerked away, said 'no,' _anything_ , I would have stopped."

"Sometimes he doesn't know how to say no."

"But he's kinda good at saying it without saying it."

"If you're listening, sure."

"Stump." Jon takes a breath. "Stump, I swear, I wouldn't do something like that without listening."

"Hey," Patrick says, his voice soft. "Hey, okay. Relax."

"I was hurting him. And yeah, he all but asked me to, but I was _hurting_ him. I was listening. I was listening so hard I could still hear him when he left."

"Walker, I get it."

Jon closes his eyes. Opens them when all he can see is Ryan and his fucking un-trusting eyes. "I'm not like that. I'm not."

"I get that, now. I get it. But I had to ask."

Jon knows, is the worst part. If it had been Ryan or Spencer or _Brendon_ he would have been doing more than asking. All he can say, though, is, "I'm not like that."

"Okay."

"I don't want to do it again."

"You're probably going to have to."

Jon knows that, too.

"Wanna program my number in your phone?" Patrick asks.

"Soon as we hang up."

"Yeah," Patrick says, with a little laugh. "You can call it, you know? Any time."

"I'm glad he has friends."

"I think I'm pretty glad he stumbled into you."

"You think?"

"I'm cautious by nature."

Jon can respect that.

 

 

*

Pete glides up to Jon at the bar of the “Build God…” release party and asks, "Think anyone would notice if I took you to the bathroom and had my wicked way with you?"

"My band would totally defend my virtue."

"I could take your band."

"Brendon and Ryan? Maybe. Spencer? Not a chance. And he'd probably have Bob with him. And where Bob is, Ray probably is. Which means you might have Gerard on your hands too. Not long after, Mikey and Frank are gonna be getting in on that—"

"Fine," Pete says. "I won't abduct you."

"We can have fun right here," Jon reassures him.

"Not making out fun," Pete says.

"No, true. But hey-I-haven't-seen-you-in-awhile-what's-up fun."

"I talk to you every day."

"Getting tired of me?" Jon asks with apparent sympathy.

"Your face is even stupider than Brendon Urie's," Pete tells him sincerely.

"You surf the web too much."

"You knew the reference."

"You have a tendency to send me links."

"You don't have to look at them."

"You send me them."

Patrick pulls up to them, nods at Jon, says, "We might have a problem."

"I haven't done _anything_. Not even take Jon to the bathroom. He wouldn't let me."

Patrick is momentarily impressed. "Strong work."

Jon takes this as his due. He deserves it. "Thanks."

"And you're not the problem," Patrick tells Pete.

"Really?"

"I've lost Joe."

"He usually finds his way home on his own," Pete says.

"Yes, but last time I saw him he was unusually high, even for Joe, and had some vaguely deviant plans involving both the Olsen twins."

Jon says, "I'll take the upper level, you guys can split the lower one."

Pete says, "Joe's not in your band."

"Maybe I feel the need to defend the virtue of young and nubile starlet twins everywhere."

Pete looks doubtful.

"Or maybe I just like helping you out." Jon waves his phone while heading in the direction of the stairs. "If I find him, I'll call."

 

 

*

Pete finds Joe and says, "Seriously, Joe, it's my job to give Patrick a heart attack."

"Seriously?" Joe asks, drawn out and clearly not serious.

Pete can't help it; he laughs. "Have you done anything you're going to regret in the morning?"

"That's your problem, man. You regret things."

In the rare moments when Joe is sober, he sometimes regrets the stuff Pete does, too. Pete says, "Make you a deal. Promise me you won't ravish anyone younger than eighteen or likely to say they're having your lovechild and I'll tell Patrick I sent you home."

Joe sticks out his hand.

"I swear, if you fuck me over—"

"It'll pretty much be what you deserve?"

"But not what Patrick does."

Joe thinks about that. "Yeah, okay. I'll play fair."

Pete sets Joe free and goes to find Patrick. He says, "I got him in a cab."

"You're the worst liar on the planet, Pete."

Pete's pretty sure that's not true, Patrick's just good at reading him.

"Call your boyfriend, tell him he can stop walking around in circles. Can I assume you at least told Joe not to do anything phenomenally stupid?"

"I read him the riot act."

"I've seen your riots, Wentz."

Pete'll give him that. "He's not my boyfriend."

Patrick is silent at that.

"He's not, Patrick."

"He's something that's not exactly a friend, Pete."

"He doesn't touch me like that."

"No, because you think that's what defines a boyfriend and he knows better."

"It's part of it."

"I know, Pete, but you see everything in synecdochic or metaphoric terms and the world doesn't always work like that. There are parts to things, that's why shit falls apart, but if you're not willing to try all the parts, what's the use? Do you even enjoy the shit that screws you up while it's busy screwing you up? I mean, I'd think you'd want some sort of trade-off, but of late I think you run to anything that doesn't ask for more of you than you can casually remember how to give because it's just easier."

"It _is_ easier," Pete says softly.

Patrick sighs. "He _wants_ to be your boyfriend, Pete. He brings you flowers and takes you on dates and accepts your apologies for things he maybe shouldn't and helps you find wayward band members. Not even Mikey did that, not even when you were the only thing he wanted."

"Mikey had different ways of getting what he wanted."

"I know, I'm not saying they were wrong, but you were still easier at that time, not so convinced that things had to be a certain way. Jon's working his ass off and you're pretending like you're the one making the effort. Just, give him something, okay?"

"Aren't you supposed to be on my side? You're my best fucking friend."

"And it's for that reason that sometimes I've got to seem like the enemy, Pete. Because nobody plays that role better than you. Nobody."

Pete hates that Patrick always gets to be right. It's unholy. Inhuman. "What do you think I should do?"

"For the moment?"

"Yeah."

"Call the poor guy and tell him he can stop trying to find our guitarist."

Pete presses memory six and listens to Panic's version of "Killer Queen" until Jon asks, "Found him?"

 

 

*

Pete sends him a hoodie with Warhol-ian graphics of the latest set of pictures of Killer Jon has emailed. There's a note pinned to the inside. It says, "Because Patrick's pretty sure you're my boyfriend. Yours. P."

Jon has a trucker hat that says, "Voldemort makes the Baby Jesus cry," made and sends it to Patrick with a sticky attached. The sticky says, "For whatever you said that he heard."

Patrick calls him. "Pete is _so_ jealous of my hat."

"That was sort of the plan."

Pete calls him. "Hey, you're _my_ boyfriend."

"So? Bob sends me car magazines when he's done with them all the time. Spencer looks at them and thinks about banging Bob in the bed of the latest Ford F-whatever the fuck, I look at them and purr contentedly at the engines, which is what Bob is looking for someone to do with him."

"I don't think he would mind the truck bed thing, either. Bryar's totally a dirty old man."

"Two words, Peter. Or, well, four, in this instance. George Ryan Ross III."

"Spencer's younger than Ryan, and Bob is older than me."

"And yet, their relationship is more functional than anyone I know, including my parents, who are pretty normal and manage fairly well for themselves."

Pete sighs, and then, unsurprisingly, changes the subject. "Why didn't you tell me you were my boyfriend?"

"I thought the kissing gave it away," Jon tells him. He really did. He also thinks that possibly he should have known better, since Pete has a well-documented history of being caught kissing girls whom he earnestly refers to as friends.

"I just thought you liked that. Had fun with me that way."

"I do have fun with you that way. But I try to limit my kissing to people I want to do other stuff with." It doesn't always work out that way for Jon, but he makes the attempt, and that's something.

"Really? Don't you find that sort of sad? There are lots of good kissers out there, it doesn't mean I'd want to see any of them naked."

At this point, Jon's just glad that the one thing he does know about what's going on in Pete's head is that Pete would like to see him naked. "The kissing's fun with you because other things are fun with you. For me. It's part of something."

"Oh."

"We find a lot of the same things funny and have similar tastes in music and you're willing to let me have my baseball and cars thing and I'm willing to let you have your dogs and clothes designing thing. See? We're fun together. And when I kiss you, all of that stuff gets wrapped up in the physical part. It makes it better. I think it makes it better. Maybe you disagree."

Pete's only offering is, "Kissing you is a _lot_ of fun."

It just doesn't mean the same thing in Pete's head. Jon can accept that. He worries, though, that none of the other stuff will mean the same thing when they get to it, either. Jon takes a breath and reminds himself to slow the fuck down. No use getting impatient now.

"Have you— Has there been— I mean, I know you're sort of stuck on, well, Urie, but since we started, have you...done what I've done?"

Jon can't decide which part of that to respond to first. He settles on, "I've always known I couldn't have Brendon," and wonders, vaguely, what was the thing that finally gave it away. "No, I haven't. I haven't really wanted to. I know what I want."

"But don't you ever want more than one thing?"

"I'm not particularly easy to distract."

"I have a short attention span."

"Not for the things that matter, Pete." Fall Out Boy has been around long enough for Jon to have determined that.

"Sometimes even then."

Jon thinks it's more that Pete gets scared by the things that matter and so reverts to comforting behavior, including following wherever his eyes lead him, but people get scared. That's something Jon can work with. He digs his fingernails into his palm and asks, "Do you not want to be my boyfriend? Is that what you're trying to tell me?"

Jon's starting to think Pete's been disconnected, or purposely hung up on him when Pete says, "I don't want you to decide being my boyfriend is a mistake."

"I'm not the one who's always using that word in connection with you."

"That's the worrisome part. You just haven't known me long enough."

"Long enough for that," Jon tells him, utterly convinced it's the truth.

 

 

*

Jon goes home for a little bit before Panic starts writing and Pete ends up being in town for his mom's birthday so Jon says, "I don't imagine you'd like to stay at my place, for a bit?" A bit being the one night Pete has free between flying in and out and actually celebrating with his parents. Jon was actually sort of hoping Pete would ask, but when it becomes clear that's just not going to happen, he takes the initiative.

Pete shows up first thing in the morning the day after his mom's party. He looks like he hasn't slept. "Hi, boyfriend."

The word sounds like another language when Pete says it. Jon pulls him into his apartment and kisses him hello. "Hello."

Hemmy, still caught in Pete's arms, barks. Pete looks apologetic. "I didn't wanna leave him with my parents. They ignore him."

Jon takes Hemmy and nuzzles his face to Hemmy's for a few seconds. Hemmy licks him, somewhat thoughtfully.

"That means you're his," Pete says.

"Oh?"

"Dogs lick to mark their territory."

"I thought that was their way of kissing."

"Evidently, dogs have a more clear system than humans do," Pete says.

Jon laughs. "Have you eaten?"

Pete shakes his head. Jon tells Hemmy, "You've gotta start taking better care of him."

Hemmy makes a huffing sound and Jon lets him down, allowing him free run of the apartment. Hemmy goes off to explore his new territory. Jon hopes he restricts himself to licking as a way of marking.

"Dinner was steak," Pete says.

Jon doesn't ask when the last time he ate was. He flew in yesterday, so the answer probably involves something around the two-days ago mark. Luckily, Jon grocery shopped for the occasion, so he's able to pull together baked apple pancakes and fruit salad within a half an hour. He even has good coffee. Pete eats ravenously and Jon watches, enjoying how Pete can let him give a crap in this way without putting up so much resistance.

When he's done, Pete asks, "Was there something you wanted to do today?"

"I TiVoed all the Daily Shows and Colbert Reports this week. Wanna curl up on my couch and watch?" Jon leaves the 'until you pass out' right off that question.

"There's nothing you—"

"We've got all day. And a night. I'll think about it while we're watching, okay? I promise you a real date before you leave."

"You don't have to. Promise."

"I know, but I did, so now I'm gonna see it through."

"I haven't had time to watch in a while," Pete says wistfully.

Jon positions himself behind Pete on the couch, Pete spooning up into him. He sneaks his hand beneath Pete's t-shirt, rests it squarely over the breast bone. Pete's asleep before the end of the first Daily Show, but that's fine. Jon will let him watch later if he asks. Jon turns off the TV, rests his lips at the back of Pete's neck, and settles somewhere safely between sleep and comfort.

 

 

*

Jon doesn't exactly fall asleep, but he isn't what he would call awake, either, when the whimpering starts. He rocks Pete a little bit, croons, "You're safe, sweetheart," and Pete settles. Jon falls back into his not-sleep until Pete's whispered, "Jon?" reaches him at some point, maybe hours later. Jon hasn't been paying attention to anything other than the perfect quiet of them together like this.

"Morning," Jon mumbles.

"Hm," Pete says, his gaze going out the window. "Maybe not so much anymore."

"Ready for your date?" Jon asks.

"Do you have to let go of me?"

"It does involve moving from the couch, yes."

"Maybe a little while longer, then."

Jon kisses the back of his neck. "Sure."

"Where are we going?"

"Somewhere fun," Jon tells him.

"You're pretty much the world's most annoying boyfriend."

"Because you've had so many."

"I can tell these things."

"Did you bring Hemmy's leash?"

"Hemmy's coming with us?"

"Unless you feel like he'll get in the way."

Pete's, "No," is a little while coming, and sounds a bit confused when it does. Jon makes himself rouse Pete, get both of them on their feet. He goes and slips into the flip-flops he wore to Pete's party months before. He tries not to think of them as his lucky flip-flops, because that's just stupid, but sometimes he can't help himself.

Jon rolls down the back window of his car so that Hemmy can hang out of it in the time honored tradition of being a dog. He makes Pete sit up front, but lets him have control of the radio. Pete seems happy enough with the trade-off. When Jon finds a parking space outside Lincoln Park, Pete says, "Holy shit, I haven't been here since I was kid. My parents used to take me all the time."

Jon loves the Lincoln Park Zoo, it's one of his favorite places in the world. He's a particular fan of the amphibian collection, which is considerable and if there are kids anywhere nearby—there usually are—they can be counted on to shriek at the snakes and hop with the frogs and all sorts of mildly ridiculous things. Pete lingers with him over the iguanas, lets Jon read some of the more bizarre facts aloud to him, makes faces at the animals. In exchange—and it's not such a sacrifice on his part—Jon hangs out in the bear section for the better part of an hour while Pete just watches, watches the polar bears swim and the sun bears tumble over each other and the grizzlies sun themselves.

Pete says, "They seem so deceptively cuddly," and Jon slings an arm over his shoulder, casual enough that cameras won't be a problem, but he thinks Pete will get the message. He hopes. They have communication issues.

When they've had their fill of staring at slimy and cuddly things alike, Jon leads Pete and Hemmy over to the part of the park where Hemmy can be set free to run, run like the wind. Hemmy runs more like a girl, so far as Jon can tell, and comes back a lot, as if to reassure himself Pete hasn't left. Where the hell Pete found himself a dog with the same issues as he has is beyond Jon, but it's bizarrely endearing.

When Hemmy's worn out they walk up to the North Pond restaurant, where Jon charms the hostess into keeping Hemmy in the coatroom. He doesn't feel too bad, since Hemmy promptly curls up on the floor and falls asleep, his big afternoon catching up to him. Also, the appearance of a dog seems to have made the hostess's evening better, and she sets them up at a window table so that they can look out onto the eponymous pond. Pete opens his menu and starts looking. Without glancing up he says, "You're good at this date thing."

"I try," Jon says.

"At a level of effort that I am not sure can be maintained."

"That's because you don't trust me."

"I—"

"Don't lie to me, Peter Lewis."

"Was that mercy on your part, cutting that short? Or just laziness?"

"Some combination thereof."

"Fair enough. And I'm trying. You're just better at the trying thing than I am. You're better."

"Not better. Different."

"That's what people say when they are actually better."

"Stop calling me people, I'm starting to feel hurt."

"See?" Pete asks. "You're better."

"You gonna call me people again?"

"Gonna try not to."

"Different."

 

 

*

Jon asks, "You're staying with me, tonight, yeah?"

"Since I told my parents my flight was this morning, it's either you or a hotel. And they're always getting uppity about Hemmy."

"Stop it, you're going to make me feel special."

"Also, I want to have mad, passionate sex with you."

"That memo I'd gotten."

Pete sighs. "No?"

"I've got a better idea," Jon says brightly.

"You really don't."

Probably not, but Jon's not going to acknowledge how badly he wants to pull Pete to him, take him on every flat—and not so flat—surface in his apartment. "We'll see."

Jon makes them coffee when they get back, decaf, just something for them to sip at together. He puts Billie Holliday on the stereo and says, "Dance with me."

Pete rolls his eyes. "Getting cliché on me?"

"You don't want to dance?"

"I bump and writhe and grind. Dancing I never learned."

"You're a talented guy, and I'm a pretty patient instructor."

"Jon—"

"Give it a chance," Jon says, tilting his head and smiling, and not thinking about the way he could change one word, just one in that sentence, and say what he actually means. Pete slides his hand into Jon's, settles the other on Jon's waist. The hands are familiar, calloused in all the same places as Jon's are. "All right. And one," Jon steps forward, nudging Pete's opposite foot back, "two," to the side, "three," back for Jon, forward for Pete, "and four," the other side. "Just like that."

Jon takes Pete through it again, his count soft. On the third repetition he uses his hold on Pete's waist to lead him through a spin. On the fourth he pulls Pete into a tighter formation. "I could teach you blues, too."

"What's the difference?"

Jon doesn't answer, just pulls Pete so that there's no space between them, says, "Kick your leg between mine, a small kick."

Pete does.

"One," Jon says, and kicks his left leg. "Two. Now your other."

Pete kicks.

"Three," and Jon finishes up with a final kick, "Four."

"That's it?" Pete asks.

"Keep going," Jon murmurs, and when they've truly settled into each other's rhythms he dips Pete a little bit, rolls him backward. Pete goes with the motion, trusts Jon to bring him back upright, not to drop him.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Jon tells him at the end of one dip, the line of Pete's neck having captivated him.

"I think you mean hot," Pete tries to correct him.

"I mean beautiful. Right fucking through yourself." Jon turns him slowly, and admires the view. When he brings him back in this time, he takes the chance to kiss him and he knows that if there's any more dancing that evening, it will be purely incidental. Billie sings on.

 

 

*

Jon picks up his phone. "Hey."

There's sniffling on the other end of the line.

"Pete?" Jon asks softly.

"I'm just pissed, is all," Pete tells him, and yeah, he's definitely crying.

"Wanna tell me why?"

"Fucking Patrick and fucking— He always has to be right, you know?"

Patrick doesn't strike Jon as that type at all. He does strike Jon as the type who, in an argument between Pete and himself, probably _is_ right a lot of the time. "What were you guys fighting about?"

"I said some shit in an interview. It'll probably break tomorrow."

"What sort of shit?"

"True shit."

"About what?"

"People in the industry."

Jon swipes Brendon's Sidekick off the table and orders Patrick a stress-care package of Godiva chocolates even as he keeps talking so that he won't forget. "Well, I hate to take his side, but that probably wasn't wise, was it?"

"Could you—" Pete's intake of breath is slow, worn. "No sides, okay? Just talk to me. Not about this."

"The Cubs won last night. Nine eight in the tenth inning, which makes it a combination of a damn good game and a moment of any-one-you-walk-away-from."

"Did you celebrate?"

"I ate ice cream straight from the container. A gallon one."

"My boyfriend is a wild man."

"You wouldn't have me any other way," Jon says, and before Pete can respond says, "I'm not really looking forward to Reading."

"It’s still a ways off and the likelihood that Urie will get hit twice is pretty small, you realize?"

"If it had been Patrick—and I realize you're pissed right now, but just, if it had been Patrick? If you'd looked over and he'd been on the ground and not even, fuck, he was just in a ball, but not like when someone curls up, it wasn't natural, it was _broken_ looking, and I couldn't tell who'd done it because it was all so fucking fast, but I would have killed the asshole. If that had been Patrick—"

"I wouldn't have taken the offer to come back."

"He would have, though."

"You left the decision up to _Brendon_?"

"You would have left it up to Patrick, too."

"No fucking way in hell."

Jon knows better. "He got back up. He finished for those kids. It was his right to say yes or no."

Pete sighs. "You guys'll be fine this time. Better than. They won't be able to touch you, you'll be so un-fucking-believable."

"I know," Jon says. He does. It doesn't really make him want to go back. "Better?" he asks.

"Did you just distract me with your own misery?" Pete asks.

"Yes. Did it work?"

When Pete manages to answer, "Yes," he sounds so surprised Jon is hard-pressed not to laugh. Instead he says, "Not so many people let you take care of them."

"You felt the need to be different?"

"For you? Pretty much always."

"Why?" Pete asks. "I mean, why me?"

"Because you don't expect it. Because if you were ever willing to be kept by me you would be worth keeping, and not many people are."

"How do you know?"

"I have excellent people sense."

"You got yourself into a band with two of the most emotionally-stunted people I've ever met."

"You think they weren't worth it? _This_ wasn't worth it?"

"I think Patrick thinks that about me, sometimes."

"He doesn't."

"He said I never think about how my words are their words too."

Jon will not be distracted. "He doesn't think you're not worth it, Pete. Ever."

"He gets pretty mad."

"Friends have that right. He forgives you too, doesn't he?"

"Always," Pete says softly, both hope and confusion coloring his tone.

"That's because you're always worth it."

"I thought we weren't gonna talk about this."

"All right, but this time you have to provide the topic. I'm fresh out."

 

 

*

Jon emails the first recordings of their songs to Pete. They're not even studio recordings, just them sticking a digital recorder on so that they can play the stuff back to themselves. It's total betrayal and all three of the others would probably kick his ass, even Ryan. Spencer is so doing the same thing with Bob, he can lie to Jon about it all he wants, and Ryan and Brendon get to create the songs together. Jon doesn't see why his boyfriend should get left out of the loop.

Pete calls him. "Are the rumors true? Are all of you having sex non-stop in that cabin?"

Pete sounds casual, so Jon asks—equally casual, "Why do you ask?"

"Because there has to be some sort of impetus behind this sort of creativity."

"Well, we do all seem to like each other. Brendon and Ryan sleep together," he says, helpfully.

"Jesus, Jon."

"Made you want to make out with me a little, didn't it?"

"I always want to make out with you."

Jon grins.

"Seriously, Jon. When this gets cleaned up?"

"I know," Jon says. Music has excited him his whole life, but it's different with Panic, different being part of its inception, in the way its always growing.

Pete says, "I could hear you."

Jon doesn't think he means that the bass was audible. Softly, he asks, "Did it make you hard?"

"Yes," Pete tells him, his tone ashamed.

"I like making you hard. I love making you hard. And for all the right reasons like that. Tell me what you did."

"What I did?"

"Did you take care of yourself?"

Pete's, "Yes," is short, panted out.

"What did you do? Did you put the song on again?"

"Yes."

"And wrap your hand around your cock?"

Pete's, "Yes," is a bit tortured.

"Do you want to do that again now?"

"Jon, please. I'm trying—"

"Take your cock out, sweetheart, hold it for me."

Pete whimpers and Jon can hear him shifting the Sidekick to his ear, fussing with his jeans.

"Got it?" Jon asks.

"Got it," Pete forces out.

"Did you stroke it before, or was it more of a squeeze, a push and pull?"

"Started... Started with stroking."

"I'd like that, like to get to know how your cock feels, how it's different from any other cock I've ever touched. Are you stroking it for me?"

"Yes, Jon. Yes."

"How does that feel?"

"Please, don't make me stop."

"No, you keep going. Did you put the songs on repeat?"

"Loud."

"And when stroking wasn't enough?"

"Pulled."

"You ready for that?"

"Please, Jon. Please."

"Pull, Pete. I think that would be the best part, wrapping my fist tight around you, because you would be mine and you would know it, if you ever decided that was what you really wanted. I would be all the way around you, controlling your pleasure, knowing that I could give you everything I wanted to give you, things you haven't yet begun to want because you don't know enough to know they exist.

"You close?" Jon asks.

"So close."

"Tell me when you wanna come, tell me." Jon closes his eyes, listens to the sound of Pete's desperation. It's so intense it nearly blends in to Pete's, "Now, please, please now."

Jon says, "Hold on for one moment more. One moment. Because I'm asking. Are you holding?"

Pete's, "yes," is utter anguish.

Jon melts. "Come for me, Pete."

Pete shouts as he comes, a high, breathy thing of a sound. Jon keeps his hand away from his own dick, because if he doesn't there's no way he's going to be able to pay attention, and he wants to wait until Pete makes his way back, wants to ask, "Was that good?"

"Jesus, Jon. It'd be embarrassing to die from overstimulation through _phone_ sex."

"You'd survive," Jon says dryly.

Pete laughs. "I want to talk to you about music, but my brain isn't working right now."

"Why don't you call me back when you take care of that problem?"

"Mm. Hour?"

"Sounds good." Jon is unbuttoning his pants even as he hangs up.

 

 

*

Pete calls back an hour and twenty-two minutes later. "I fell asleep," he admits.

Jon laughs softly. He sort of expected him to.

"I wanted you here."

_That_ Jon didn't expect.

"I like sleeping with you here."

At this point, Jon's glad he was sitting down when the phone rang. "Good nap anyway?"

"I suppose." Pete sounds petulant.

Jon smiles. "Music?"

"You're holding back."

Jon considers the assessment. "Maybe, a little."

"What is it? Not trust the others to keep up?"

Jon snorts. Brendon, Ryan and Spencer can hold their own.

"Then what, Jon?"

And Pete noticed, noticed and had the balls to say it to him and both these facts have Jon just a little bit more imbalanced than he usually likes being but he's aware enough to know that he's not minding it so much at this moment. "I'm still finding my space." Jon is a cautious guy. He doesn't think Pete and he would still be speaking if he weren't. As such, it's not wholly a bad thing.

"Oh. Really?"

Jon shrugs, even though Pete can't see it. "Brent was theirs for forever. And they never, never fucking talk about it, but I catch Spencer with his hands on his phone not dialing a damn thing, or Brendon rubbing Ryan's back while he's trying to write the bass line. It's not that I think they aren't glad to have me, or even that they don't care about me in the way they care about each other, but I think Brent still exists and so that can get crowded."

"Okay. I mean, okay, there's not really much to say to that, except that you saved them. And they don't want another Brent they want you. And holding back because you think you're going to step on some toes or whatever it is you're stepping on… You're cheating them, Jon."

That particular choice of terminology hits Jon in the stomach, leaves him breathless for a second. He fights back the urge to tell Pete to step off, that this isn't any of his business, because he knows he actually wants it to be Pete's business, even if he doesn't feel that way right this second. He knows this is progress, this is what he's been waiting for and he's not going to ruin that, he's not. He pulls a breath in.

"Was I being a jerk there?" Pete asks into the silence.

"No," Jon manages. "No, you were being right. Which sucked. But."

"You push with me, you do. You know what's right and what will work and you just do that. So why not with them? What makes it different? That you can't lose them?"

It's possible that Jon is actually going to puke. He swallows and it burns straight down. "I'm sort of trying not to lose you either, here, Pete."

Pete sighs. "I didn't mean— I just need to understand the difference. For this conversation. If I want to help. If you want me to help."

"I want," Jon says. Then, "It's different because I got used to being temporary. And then I wasn't but it was fast, that change and sometimes I still forget. So with you I have this goal and I'm pursuing it and I know exactly where the lines are, but with them the lines changed and sometimes it's not as easy to figure out."

"On the next track, try it. Try just going there. Try it and see."

"I—"

"I'll remind you. I'll be your reminder guy. I'm good like that."

"You are," Jon says. "You're good."

"Jon," Pete says softly. "They want to hear you. I swear. They don't want Brent, not like that, not anymore. They miss... They miss what he was to them, not what he became, and they need what you've given the band. You have to know that. You knew them when it was them and Brent. You know the difference."

Jon does.

"Just try."

"Okay."

"Really?" Pete asks.

"Really."

"Then send me it."

"You just want to get off."

"On you? Always."

"Sweet," Jon says. The fucked up thing is, it sort of is.

 

 

*

Pete calls right before FOB announces the tour break. "Joe has pneumonia."

"Pot fucks with your immune system," Jon says.

"Yeah." Pete sighs. "At least it wasn't me this time."

Jon holds back a laugh. It's not funny. Except that it sort of is. "Wanna come see me with all your shiny new free time?"

"I was hoping you'd ask."

"You could have, you know?"

"It's your band. In the cabin. I thought maybe that was presumptuous."

"Bryar would already be out here except for that part where My Chem has two guitarists. Spencer and he have been trying for two weeks straight to figure out a way to temporarily disable Toro without anyone noticing."

"I wouldn't think it would have taken the two of them that long to come up with something. They seem like crafty fellows."

"Oh, they are. Tragically for them, Gerard evidently watches out for his fellow band members somewhat stridently."

"So, you're saying that I could presume?"

"You could. I would even probably like it."

"You would."

"I very much would."

"You don't need to talk to the others?"

"I'll talk when we get off the phone."

"I would talk to Patrick before, if I thought about it. Which I probably wouldn't. But the point is—"

"I know what the point is, but you worry a lot about fucking things up. Particularly with him."

"There's reason for that."

"I guess."

"Jon—"

"We all fuck up sometimes. You know that, right? It's not special to you."

"I have a talent."

Jon sighs. "Okay, well. I'd like to see you, you want to come, we'll leave things at that for the moment."

"I'll bring a present."

Jon doesn't bother trying to explain that he doesn't have to.

 

 

*

Pete brings premium blend Gevalia, Godiva truffles, an as-of-yet-unreleased Xbox game that he got off a guy he knows through Clandestine, and Hemmy. He sets Hemmy down carefully next to Killer and all five of them watch with wide eyes to see what will happen. Killer takes control of the situation almost immediately, sniffing around Hemmy until she's satisfied. She then trots off. Hemmy follows obediently in her wake.

Ryan says, "That was like the definition of a metaphor."

"Jesus, Ryan," Spencer says. Brendon is clearly trying not to laugh. Jon loves his bandmates, but there are days when he seriously considers killing them. (Spencer would get a pass, except that he would defend Ryan to the death, and so, sadly, would have to go as well.)

Pete flips them all the finger and wanders off to the kitchen. Jon follows. Pete looks around for a bit before asking, "You do have a coffee maker, right?"

Jon flips the lazy susan that hides it even as he says, "It's three in the afternoon. You not sleep last night?"

Pete shrugs. "I was coming to see you. Had things to pack, plans to make."

Jon settles his hands lightly on Pete's hips. "Maybe a nap, instead of coffee?"

"Don't wanna spend all my time with you sleeping."

"I thought you liked sleeping with me."

"You know what I meant."

"An hour. Then we'll get up and catch up on all our fake news and figure out how to play the new game together."

Pete turns so that they're facing, close but not touching. "Mm, fake news."

"I know what you like." Jon smiles. It's a little bit of seduction. Mostly it's just happiness to see Pete.

"I've heard I'm easy."

"You must be talking to the wrong people."

Pete rolls his eyes. "The only unknown in this equation is who the hell it is _you're_ talking to, Jon Walker."

"I like to make up my own mind."

Killer sprints into the kitchen, bringing along her erstwhile companion. Jon scoops her up. "Wanna take a nap?"

She makes a noise of contentedness, probably more in reaction to the fact that he's stroking her belly than to the question, but that, so far as Jon is concerned, is unimportant. Hemmy is looking up at Pete with something that is either jealousy or distress and Pete picks him up as well. "Coming, bud?"

Hemmy licks Pete's face. Pete says, "I know."

Jon takes Pete to his room and the four of them curl up in his bed. Just when Jon thinks Pete has already fallen asleep Pete says, "It sort of is like a metaphor."

"Only if you're Killer and I'm Hemmy."

"No—"

"Perspective is everything, Pete."

Pete says, "I wish I could see what you see," and falls asleep with his hands fisted in Jon's shirt.

 

 

*

They watch three hours worth of fake news, Pete kicks Jon's ass at the new game for an hour and a half straight and then Jon says, "Hey, you hungry?"

"For food?" Pete clarifies.

Jon shoves him a little, laughs. "Well, I am." He stands up and heads toward the kitchen. He's pretty sure Pete will follow.

Spencer's in the kitchen when he gets there. He says, "Okay, there's a few options here. You could make something for dinner, we could order for pick up, or we could let things go as they are and see which one of us Ryan decides to eat first."

"Too far out for delivery?" Pete asks. Spencer and Jon nod. They discovered this the hard way.

Jon tells Spencer, "I had lasagna plans anyway."

"When we win our first Grammy, I promise to make everyone aware that you were the only reason we didn't starve to death on the way."

"That's why I joined, man. You were all looking kinda peaky there. It was heartbreaking."

"I'm sure," Spencer says, and leaves them to themselves.

Jon grabs Pete by the shirt, pulls him in for a kiss. "Wanna help me feed my band?"

"I know how to boil water," Pete tells him.

"You're a pretty useful boyfriend."

"I could be more useful."

"A highly tempting offer, but useful isn't exactly what I'm looking for in a boyfriend." Jon lets Pete go. "There are large pots in the cabinet next to the one under the sink."

Pete sighs and goes to get the pan. Jon does most of the heavy lifting so far as the cooking goes, but he brings Pete along with him, giving him things to do, brushing against him at regular intervals despite both of them having more than enough space in the cabin's kitchen. When the lasagna is assembled and cooking, Jon sticks the dishes in the dishwasher while Pete cleans the counters. Jon takes advantage of their newly cleansed state to haul Pete onto the nearest stretch of counter, fit himself between Pete's legs, press his hands to the inside of Pete's thighs, kiss him slow and thorough.

He's still there when the timer goes off for the lasagna and Brendon appears asking, "Are we gonna eat now, are we, because I'm telling you, Walker, Ryan would so go for your ass first, it's more appetizing."

Pete laughs, mumbles into his ear, "It really is."

 

 

*

Pete gives Brendon a run for his money on Apples to Apples but in the end Brendon pulls ahead. Jon says, "He kinda lives with us," and overall, the whole thing seems to do a fair amount to repair relations between the two.

Ryan and Pete spend a few hours the next day being cryptic in the way that only two lyricists stuck in a room together can be. Spencer shares his bag of potato chips—the one he has purposely hidden from Brendon—with Jon and says, "You realize we're going to have to decode whatever shit they come up with?"

"Welcome to my love life," Jon tells him.

Spencer says, "My boyfriend is a drummer," like that means something.

Jon considers Hurley in addition to Bob and Spencer and realizes that it actually might, which is just freaky. "Mine's a bassist."

"Yeah," Spencer says, and they eat their chips in relative silence.

When Pete emerges he kisses Jon and says, "Hey, you're salty, where's the salt?"

"Right here," Jon says, and kisses him again.

"Fine," Pete says, giving in with ill-grace but not much resistance.

"Cooties," Brendon shouts before running off to who only knows where. Ryan evidently knows, because he follows.

Spencer asks, rhetorically, "Why does my boyfriend's band have _two_ fucking guitarists?" Jon laughs against Pete's mouth.

Later, Jon takes Pete into the nearby town. It's a small place, what his mom would call a one gas station town. There's a place that makes homemade candies, salt-water taffy and marshmallow fudge and cinnamon apples. Jon buys an assortment and then keeps on driving, into the desert where he parks the car and they sit on the hood eating things that stick to their fingers and inside their mouths. There's nobody around for miles, so Jon doesn't even look around when Pete takes one of his hands, sucks the pointer finger into his mouth. He doesn't object when Pete continues his slow assault. He objects when Pete's hand drops casually to the button on Jon's jeans. "No."

A desperate Pete is one most likely to strike at exactly the right places, so Jon shouldn't be surprised when he says, "There's nobody out here but you and me, not unless you brought Urie along."

But Brendon isn't the problem, hasn't been the problem for a while now, and Jon couldn't tell anyone—least of all himself—when that changed, only it did. The problem is, "The way you act, there's nobody but me out here."

"What the fuck, Jon? What the fuck does that mean?"

Jon makes himself take his time, makes himself think despite the frantic thrum of his heart. "You see me, now. You _see_ me, and that's better. But in the same way that all you wanted was something for you to take away at first, now all you want is something for _me_ to take away. You still don't believe there can be any us, not even in that act, and I don't want that until there is us. I don't want it. At all."

"Fucking _fixers_ ," Pete screams and hops off the hood, stomps away, kicking up sand and dirt with every step. Jon waits until he can barely see him to follow him with the car. When he catches up to him, Pete's walk has slowed and he's got his arms curled up over his stomach. Jon opens the passenger side door and, when Pete gets in, hands him a bottle of water. Pete swallows half of it in one go.

Jon says, "I'm sorry I can't ask for less."

Pete says, "I don't have more."

"You do. You do. You just don't see it."

"And you do?"

"I don't even have to look."

 

 

*

Jon doesn't find out from a tabloid, which is a plus. He doesn't find out from Pete, either, which is a minus. He finds out from Mikey Way, and Jon can't, for the life of him, figure out which column that weighs in on.

He says, "Okay. I should have seen this coming." And he did see it coming, he saw it coming with some gorgeous, easy, long-legged girl, some rising diva, someone available and distracting and not in need of much from the person on the other end. He didn't see it coming in the form of Janae, who is not casual and not about a lack of attachment and Jon says, "Mikey, can you hold on for a second?"

"Yeah. I'm here."

Jon sets the phone down and swears for a minute straight, every single word something his mother would have fucking _bleached_ out his mouth over if she ever heard. He picks up the phone. "Okay. Sorry about that."

"Did you guys have a fight? Because sometimes he fights dirty."

"No. No. No fight. I just. Fucked up. And I knew it, but when we said goodbye—" Jon thinks back, remembers the way Pete still slept with him that night, pressed to him, quiet through the whole of the night. And maybe that should have been a tell in and of itself, that he never once whimpered or murmured or screamed. But in the morning he drank the coffee he'd brought, the coffee Jon brewed and brought to him to wake him up for the flight, and he kissed Jon and even smiled—and Jon knows it was real, he has learned to tell the difference even when the shades are subtle, soft—and Jon asked, "I'll come see you, when you guys are back on the road?"

Pete nodded. "Yeah. Come see me."

So yeah, Jon knew he had screwed up, but he also knew he wasn't wrong and sometimes there was only so much a guy could do. It meant waiting Pete out, hoping he wouldn't do something to set progress back. Still, Jon could have handled a small misstep. This is... This is not small. "Janae?" he asks. "You're sure?"

"I knew I should have made him tell you."

"No, no. I need—" some time, is the end of that sentence, but he doesn't want to say that to Mikey, doesn't want it interpreted when he doesn't even know what it means. "This was better. I appreciate it."

"Jon, can I— As someone who dated him? And I know I wasn't successful, but I was kinda meant for someone else, but I don't think you are, so do you mind?"

"Please," Jon says, because he'll listen to anything, _anything_ that might salvage the situation at this point.

"The closer he is to something, the more stubbornly he rages against it. Because once a thing is real, once it's been instituted as possible?"

Jon sighs. "Then he has to face the equal possibility of failure. Yeah."

"He doesn't know how to comprehend success." Mikey sounds a bit apologetic.

Jon says, "You're a winner of a friend, Mikey Way. He got lucky with you."

"He's gonna be lucky with you, Jon. Just— He goes back to her because she'll never be anything more than that thing he can't have, you know?"

"I'm starting to."

Mikey hesitates a second. "You won't give up?"

Jon should. But he's so, so close.

 

 

*

Jon goes to Pete because Pete has told him to come. He has told him to come before Janae and he has told him to come by calling Mikey, having Mikey call Jon. Jon goes to Pete because somewhere along the way, the other option has become untenable. Jon has told himself on numerous occasions over the last two weeks that he is a fool. Fool or not, Jon goes to Pete because he's had time, and he's as ready as he's ever going to be.

Jon tells Patrick he's coming. He asks him, "Um, the Janae thing. I'm not gonna accidentally run into her, right?"

"She finished things up by throwing crockery at his head a week before he called Mikey. Pete didn't mean for that one to last."

Because he wants his suspicions confirmed, Jon asks, "What did he mean by it?"

"He was just pissed at you, man. Really, really pissed to do Janae, but pissed."

"Did he say—"

"Says you think he's stupid, a child. A stupid child."

"Patrick—"

" _I_ don't think you think that. I'm just quoting. And now that the initial snit has passed, I'm pretty sure he's the one feeling like a stupid child."

John sighs. Patrick says, "I'm glad you're coming," and that's something. Between Patrick and Mikey, it's almost enough confidence for Jon to go on. Ryan provides a goodly dose of the rest by simply seeing Jon on the plane, hugging him before lift-off. Jon has to find the last parts for himself. By the time the plane touches down, he's almost there.

He calls Patrick, who gives him Pete's hotel room number. Jon knocks on the door. Pete answers and Jon pre-empts anything he's going to say with, "I should have talked about it more with you, I should have listened. I know you're in this. I just get worried about how you see 'this'."

Pete asks, "What are you doing here?"

"Apologizing for making you feel stupid and childlike, which I have been told you did. I don't want to do that to you. I'm sorry."

"Jon—"

Jon waits. Pete shakes his head. "You have to go. I'll do it again and again if you stay. You know I will."

"I don't," Jon tells him.

"You _do_."

"No, you think you know it and so you think I must know it, but what I know is what I said, that you're _in_ this. What I know is that you're sending me away because you're afraid to not be in this, so it would be better just to get it over with, to have this fuck up be The Fuck Up that you think I'm waiting for. Only I'm not waiting. You are."

"I did it to hurt you," Pete says.

"I know that, too."

Pete's breathing breaks at that acknowledgment, a cracking sound coming off his lips. "Then what— How am I—"

"May I come in?" Jon asks. Pete stands still for a few minutes before registering the question, letting him in.

"Did you believe me when I said I was sorry?"

There's no hesitation on Pete's part, not a blink, not anything. "Yes."

"I would too, if you said it."

"I wouldn't believe me."

"What would you believe, Pete?"

"You won't yell?"

"No," Jon shakes his head. He doesn't apologize. Pete goes to his bag and digs through it for several moments on end. He pulls out of it a belt. A studded belt. Jon swallows bile. _Hell, no._ "I'm gonna be right back. Do you believe me?"

Cautiously, Pete nods his head.

"Okay, let me in when I knock."

Jon goes to Patrick's room. Patrick says, "That bad already?"

Jon asks, "Do you trust me not to hurt him?"

Patrick squints, "Um?"

"Physically. Do you trust me not to hurt him physically?"

Slowly, Patrick asks, "Jesus, what does he want?"

Jon shakes his head. "Just. Do you have a belt? Leather but unadorned?"

Patrick stands stock still for a second. When he says, "Pete," it's all but a moan. He tells Jon, "You don't have to."

"I _want_ him," Jon says, and it's a lie, it's the worst lie he has ever told, because this is something so very different from want.

Patrick seems to follow. "Lemme—" He gestures meaninglessly and wanders toward his bag. He brings back the requested item, closing one hand over Jon's just a bit tighter than necessary in the transmission process.

Jon goes back. He knocks on Pete's door.

 

 

*

Pete opens the door. His eyes stray immediately to Jon's hand and he asks, "Patrick?" his cheeks flushing with shame.

Jon pushes him inside a little, just enough that he can get in too, close the door behind him. "Patrick loves you," he says, because that's something he can say.

Pete says, "I know," and sounds awed, confused, worried. Jon wants to touch him, to shake him a little, just a little, get him to listen, hold him. None of that is what Pete needs just now.

Jon says, "Take your clothes off." His voice is so even he doesn't recognize it. He wonders if Pete does. Pete follows the order, tossing everything aside, messy and crumpled. Jon says, "All right. I want you over the back of the couch."

Pete folds himself over it. He's so unutterably beautiful, whole and unmarked. Jon takes a moment, takes a breath, allows himself that. Then he sends leather flying. It hits Pete's ass, curls over the side, leaves a swath of red. Pete doesn't move, doesn't jerk, stays silent.

"What's this for?" Jon asks quietly, letting go another smack.

"Because I asked." Pete learned that lesson.

"Very good." A pause. Another. "What else?"

"I—"

Jon gets three in while Pete is thinking, his breathing becoming more frantic. Jon moves to his thighs, upping the pain quotient a bit, but doesn't ask again. Pete hasn't forgotten the question, he isn't being recalcitrant. He's considering.

"Because I went to her, instead of you. I could have gone to you."

A quick volley of three. "I wish you had, but that was your choice as one part of this relationship, and I won't make those choices for you, nor will I punish you for making them. What else?" Another two. Pete moans. Jon moves back up to his ass. Thinks, _come on, Pete_.

"Because I called Mikey first."

One. "You called a friend to help, that was also a decision you made as an adult. And Mikey's a good friend, and he helped." One, two, three. Slow this time, not as hard. Pete shifts, sniffles a bit.

"What else?"

"I— I didn't trust you. You told me to wait but I thought you meant— I thought you were playing with me and I didn't trust you."

A hard one. "You have the right not to trust me. I wish you did. I try to make myself trustworthy, but that doesn't mean you're always able, and I understand that. I know other people with trust issues, Pete Wentz." A quick two. "What else?"

Jon gets in a slow, almost lazy four before Pete sobs a tired, "I don't know, Jon. I don't. I don't. I'm sorry. I just don't."

One more, aimed at the line bisecting Pete's ass from his legs, tender and as-of-yet unmarked. Pete howls. When he knows Pete will hear, Jon says, "Because you needed it."

Jon drops the belt. He pulls Pete up from the couch, careful not to come into contact with any of the newly-formed welts. Pete is crying silently, his chest and back shaking with it, everything else almost eerily still. Jon herds him to the bed and lays him face down. Jon stretches out on his side next to him, threading Pete's fingers into his own, kissing at his temple. He says, "I'm gonna go get some cold towels, I'll be right back."

He runs the water as cold as he can in the bathroom, wets down and rings out every washcloth available. He lays the washcloths over Pete's inflamed skin, taking some comfort in Pete's sigh of relief amongst the sobs. Jon waits, tucked in next to him, as Pete cries himself out, as his body gives in to shaking that is partly the cold of the cloths hitting his system, partly exhaustion. Jon throws the cloths to the floor, maneuvers Pete to get him under the covers. Pete makes a small sound in his throat. Jon says, "I know, sweetheart, but I don't want you getting cold."

Jon climbs under the covers as well, puts an arm over Pete's shoulders. Pete stops shivering.

 

 

*

Pete sleeps for a little over two hours straight without so much as shifting. Jon drifts in and out, but he's more in than out. He traces patterns on Pete's back, enjoying the privilege of gentle touch and considering his next move. When Pete opens his eyes, settling them on Jon, Jon asks, "You hungry?"

Pete thinks about the question. "Maybe a little."

Jon picks up the phone and orders them an onion pizza with extra cheese, cheesy breadsticks and root beer. Pete says, "I'm a really bad vegan." He sounds ashamed.

"Cows need to be milked, sweetheart. And I eat steak and you don't seem to think that makes me a bad person."

"It's just— It's that I made the decision, you know? And now I cheat all the time."

"You like milk products, Pete. The majority of the American populace does. It's not a crime, and it doesn't say anything about the other decisions you make."

"I like sex, too. I really do."

"I know. And you were trying to tell me that that was part of being in this for you, and I ignored you. That was cruel of me."

"You're not cruel."

"Not intentionally, I hope."

"You're not," Pete says decisively.

"You got the part, though, where this wasn't all your fault. Right?"

Pete is quiet.

"Pete?"

"I know. I just don't _know._ "

Jon kisses his back. "That's fair."

"Stupid," Pete corrects him.

"Fair," Jon reiterates.

There's a knock on the door. Jon says, "You stay. Exactly where you are."

He goes to get the pizza and when he comes back, Pete is still lying on his stomach, his eyes closed. Jon sneaks a hand under the covers, runs it over Pete's spine. "Cooperate with me, all right?"

Pete lets Jon move him as he will, propping Pete on his side so that he's supported but the least amount of damaged skin is coming into contact with another surface. Then Jon grabs a piece of pizza. Pete says, "This is gonna be kinda awkward— Oh."

Jon feeds the pizza directly to him. Alternating bites with Pete. Pete says, "I really do love cheese."

"Yup. Whoever thought to eat extremely curdled milk was pretty much a genius."

"No wonder so many geniuses die young."

Jon laughs. "See, it was only natural that you were going to be a handful."

Pete flushes and uses the excuse of chewing to keep from answering. When he does, he says, "There's more to cheese than curdled milk, I'm pretty sure."

Jon honestly has no clue.

 

 

*

It's nearly one in the morning when Jon says, "I want to rub your back. I like touching you, if that's okay."

Pete closes his eyes. "Jon, you can't— Every time you start and then stop—

"Give me a chance, here, Pete. Trust me to do something other than hurt you."

"I needed that," Pete says defensively.

"I know," Jon says, his tone free of judgment. "I need this."

Pete waits a moment before giving a quick, decisive nod. Both Jon and Pete keep hand lotion on them, it would be idiotic for a bassist to do otherwise with the wear and tear on his hands. Jon digs his out of his bag and warms some in his hands. At first the massage is less of a massage than Jon fulfilling a pure, selfish need to have his hands on Pete's skin, to touch in a way that will heal. And Jon knows, he knows the other stuff was healing too. This is his way of healing. He thinks he's earned it, a little bit.

Pete warms under his touch, makes small, contented noises. Jon leans down to kiss at Pete's shoulder, down the line of his arm, over his elbow. He gets off the bed and discards his clothing, Pete's eyes on him the whole time. It's impossible not to get hard under that gaze, intense and interested and just the tiniest bit terrified. Jon will take care of the last, he will.

He climbs back onto the bed, settling on his back. He closes his hand around one of Pete's wrists and pulls lightly, "This way, okay?"

Pete helps Jon pull him atop himself so that their cocks nestle together. Pete is hard, too. Jon asks, "You like me touching you, huh?"

"Jon," Pete says, "Jon."

"Mm." Jon moves his hips a bit in a lazy rotation and then shifts his face just slightly so that he can kiss Pete. Pete opens to him without qualms, his mouth soft and ready and lush. Jon runs one finger over the still heated, swollen skin of Pete's ass. Pete gasps into the kiss. Jon backs off enough to ask, "Too much?"

"Just enough," Pete tells him, and reclaims Jon's mouth. Jon thrusts up against Pete again, waiting, waiting until the pleasure of the movement takes tight hold and then drifting his fingers over the injured area. The slight pain of it always drives Pete into Jon and Jon thinks it might be too much for him, even if it isn't for Pete. Jon wraps one arm tightly around Pete's waist, holding them as closely to each other as he can manage. The thrusts become more abbreviated out of necessity, but there isn't an inch of skin that isn't somehow in contact with Pete's and that was exactly what Jon was going for, exactly what he _needs_.

Pete says, "Jon, I'm going to—"

"Come, sweetheart."

Pete says, "Just. Waited. So long."

Jon really does know the feeling. "I'm almost there, I'll be right there," he promises. Pete lets go even as his hands find Jon's shoulders, his fingers clamp down. Jon revels in being made anchor, sinks further into the bed as he lets himself float, lets the pleasure come.

When he can think in coherent thoughts—if not full ones—Jon thinks, "Pete. Kissing. Neck. Mine." It's mostly coherent. He knows what it means. "Pete," he says, and it doesn't mean a damn thing except, "keep being you, keep doing this, keep me, keep." Pete bites him, not hard, and Jon thinks, "Yes, yes."

As thoughts go, it's the most coherent one he's had in some time.

 

 

*

When Pete wakes up Jon is still asleep. Pete considers waking him, wants to be with him, but Jon is breathing deeply, and the lines around his eyes are a bit sharp for comfort. Pete knows he isn't entirely blame free in that. It's funny to realize that Jon wouldn't want him to take all of that blame. It's funny to care. Pete takes a lukewarm shower, lets the water soothe some of the ache from the beating. He gets dressed in loose clothing and pads over to Patrick's room. When Patrick answers the door, Pete holds out the belt. Patrick says, "Hey, come on in."

To the Sidekick that he has tucked between his shoulder and his ear he says, "Sarah, sweetie—" but Pete swipes the Sidekick before he can finish the thought.

"Hi pretty Canadian violin girl."

Sarah laughs. "Hello irrepressible American bassist boy."

"I need to steal Patrick for a bit. It's not his fault that he's a really good friend, and you should forgive him the failing."

"Haven't found one yet that I couldn't."

"Good. Hemmy likes you."

"The same to him, I'm sure."

Pete hands the Sidekick back to Patrick who says, "My friends are losers." Whatever Sarah says, it makes Patrick smile. Pete really does like Sarah.

"I'll call you back in a bit," Patrick tells her. "Yeah, I miss you too."

Patrick keys off the Sidekick and tosses it on the bed. "Hey."

"She's a good one."

"Yeah, we both seem to be doing well in that department."

Pete holds out the belt again. Patrick takes it this time. "You okay? I mean, you look good, but you can be deceiving like that."

"Not to you."

"Me too, sometimes."

"I don't mean to."

"I know." Patrick smiles. "I know that."

Pete looks at the belt in Patrick's hands. He says, "I gave him another one. I gave him that one, the black one I like."

"The one with the metal?" Patrick asks softly.

Pete nods. "He went and got that. I didn't want you to know."

Patrick says, "Yeah, uh. I sort of—"

Pete waits. Finally he asks, "Sort of?"

"Last time, when he, when he did that, I called him."

Pete tries to understand that sentence. "But I didn't tell you."

"You were hurt, Pete. I pay attention, you know."

"I wasn't— Okay, a little sore, but I wasn't _hurt_ , not where it counted. He _fixed_ that part."

"I know, but I needed to hear where he was."

"So he knew you knew?"

Patrick nods. "He knew."

"Oh."

"I don't think he was keeping it from you. I just think he figured it was my thing to tell."

Pete shakes his head. "More just, if he knew you knew, there was no risk in asking you for the belt."

"There was risk, that was escalation, Pete. Although, luckily he had some appropriate notion of escalation. Jesus fuck, Pete."

Pete makes a face. "I meant, there was no risk of you thinking I was wrong in the head."

"I think that as a matter of course."

"You know what I mean."

"And you know what I mean."

Pete sticks his tongue out.

"You're all kinds of mature today."

"He wants me," Pete says, and it's kind of a non-sequitur, only not, and Patrick will know that.

"That's part of it, yeah."

Pete gives him a wounded look. "I'm not jinxing your thing with Sarah over here."

Patrick says, "Then I wouldn't have any reason to jinx yours with Jon, would I?"

 

 

*

When he returns, Jon is awake and watching the door. Pete closes it behind him, stands with his back to it. "I went to give Patrick his belt back."

Jon nods. "I would have, later."

"I... That was my part."

"Feel better?"

Pete smiles. "Parts of me."

Jon says, "Come back here."

Pete doesn't hesitate. Jon is still under the covers, warm and soft and welcoming. Pete selfishly hoards the welcome. Jon slips a hand in Pete's pants, puts it to Pete's ass lightly before massaging just deeply enough to elicit a moan of discomfort. Pete asks, "Hey, what was that for?"

For once, he thinks he's been pretty good.

"Maybe next time, you could leave a note?"

Oh. "You woke up and found me gone."

"Yes," Jon says, and kisses Pete with the aid of his whole body. Pete has kissed a lot of people, but never anyone who could make it the _experience_ Jon creates. Pete dissolves into it and there's really not much left of his brain by the time Jon says, "Note."

Pete would probably agree to genocide if Jon asked at that moment. "Note," he agrees.

"You're such a good boyfriend," Jon tells him before licking a path straight down Pete's sternum—Pete hasn't even noticed Jon riding his shirt up—yanking down his pants and sucking Pete right in, one long hard moment of lips and tongue and suction. Pete tries to find his tongue. He has somehow misplaced it. Very irresponsible of him. His hands find Jon's hair and okay, that's something. He pets at it. _Good boyfriend, good._ Jon got the wrong one of them with that assessment.

Jon laughs around Pete's cock and Pete misplaces his _brain_. He can't form phonemes, let alone actual words. He's lucky breathing is instinctual. At least, he hopes it is. Jon does something with his tongue, a twirl, a lick, an act of divinity and grace, Pete isn't sure; it doesn't matter. Pete is going to die, die here, in a hotel bed, and Jon is going to have to explain to Patrick—who liked him so much just an hour ago—that he accidentally killed their bassist and lyricist and then Fall Out Boy will have to invoke the Piratical Code and take Jon and Ryan as rightful spoils to fill in the missing gaps and the band just won't be the same, not at all. The thought of Jon playing Pete's part in "(After)life of the Party," flits through Pete's head and he comes so hard that if breathing _was_ instinctual, it ceases to be so.

He comes around to Jon nibbling at his belly button. It's ticklish and Pete laughs, curling up around Jon's head, but Jon just keeps it up. Pete can't stop laughing.

 

 

*

Jon kisses Pete goodbye and says, "If you wanna see me again, this time, just call."

Pete bites at Jon's jaw, pulling back to say, "If I tell you, this time, listen to me."

Jon says, "You've got yourself a deal," and makes himself get on the plane.

Zack picks him up from the airport. He watches Jon from the corner of his eye as they walk to the car. "You look better."

Jon smiles at him and it doesn't take any effort. Zack smiles back. Brendon launches himself at Jon the minute he's in sight. Jon catches him mid-air and lets Brendon climb him the rest of the way. Brendon says, "We missed you, did you make your boyfriend stop being mean to you? Because Ryan and I came up with a plan, and by Ryan and I, I mean Spencer and I, but it sounds more respectable the other way—"

Spencer has arrived by this time, so Jon peels Brendon carefully off of himself and transfers him to Spencer. "Hi Brendon. Yes, Pete and I made up."

The look of relief on Spencer's face is a little painful. Jon maybe should have called. Ryan asks, "Really?" like a kid who was expecting a coal in his stocking and peered in to discover chocolate. Definitely should have called. "Yeah, Ry, really."

Ryan accepts the nickname, he even smiles for Jon. Jon says, "You guys coulda called. I would've picked up."

Spencer and Ryan look to the side. Brendon says, "We didn't want to interrupt possible nookie. Or whatever it is the two of you get up to."

"Way to make us sound like aliens," Jon says.

Brendon shrugs. "You do all the work for me."

Ryan is now facing wholly away, which is a sure give that he's laughing. Jon wishes Ryan would let him see. Brendon tugs Ryan a little toward him, murmurs, "Share," and Jon gets his wish. Jon looks at Brendon surreptitiously, but Brendon's concentrating on Ryan, or at least making a good show of concentrating on Ryan. Spencer asks softly, "If we'd called, that wouldn't have been—"

"You're my best friends, Spencer." They aren't, they're something more, bigger, better, but there's no word for what they are, and Jon can work with what he has.

"He's your boyfriend."

"What, if Ryan called while you were with Bob, you'd ignore it?"

Spencer looks mildly scandalized by the thought. Then, slowly, he says, "I wouldn't ignore your call, either."

"Yeah. That's all I'm saying." It's a lot.

When Jon looks over, Brendon's smiling at them.

 

 

*

Pete visits while they're still laying together the tracks, getting used to them, which might be the worst idea ever, because Pete often looks _ready_ when listening to them rehearse and it makes it pretty hard for Jon to concentrate. Ryan finally says, "Seriously, Pete, could Fall Out Boy have an album without its bassist?"

Jon looks at the floor but Pete says, "Give us fifteen minutes," and wow, that's embarrassing, but at this point, Jon's pretty sure it's not going to take that long. They make for the bathroom and lock themselves in and Pete has Jon's pants down just far enough in a flash, has his hand wrapping around, pressing their cocks together. Jon grunts a bit and adds his hand to the mix. Pete says, "Your hands. Play."

"Yes," Jon says, because he's _been_ to a Fall Out Boy concert, and all, but it's even more he thinks, even more when the music is still a secret, and oh, he's going to have to do this with Pete, going to have to watch him pull things together, watch him generate a world. It takes maybe four minutes, maybe. Jon's being pretty generous with them in that estimate. He doesn't think he should be judged too harshly. Pete is singing the song they were recording in his ear and Pete isn't a singer, not like Brendon, but Jon has long since learned how to hold on to himself while listening to Brendon. Pete sends him to places he's never seen, places he didn't know could exist.

When they are done, Jon reaches out with a shaky hand, grabs a couple of paper towels, wets them, cleans Pete and himself up. He asks, "Think you can behave yourself now?"

"I'm not the one thrusting my hips forward in an obscene and inappropriate manner. There are very probably laws against what you're doing in there."

"I happen to be doing my job." Jon doesn't think Pete is one to talk at all.

"Uh huh. Sure."

"Seriously, my band is on your label, it's in your best interest to actually let us get the album recorded."

"Well, certain best interests, anyway."

Jon smirks and turns to open the door. Pete says, "Jon."

Jon twists his head over his shoulder. "Pete."

"You've stopped holding back."

"You were right."

Pete is still for a second. Then he smiles, wide and soft and honest. Jon opens the door.

 

 

*

At Reading, Pete finds Jon's hotel room first, which is a total fluke, due largely to the fact that Jon is hesitant to leave Ryan to his own devices with Brendon, who is even more hyperactive than usual. Ryan's actually holding up pretty well, mostly staying out of Brendon's way so that nobody accidentally gets hurt. Spencer is off dealing with actual travel complications that have arisen, so Jon's the only one who can stick around and make sure Panic still has four members by they time they're scheduled to play. Also, Ryan has said, "You could go, you know," sounding like he sort of expects it of Jon, is resigned to this fact, and Jon knows if he does go, that will be the sound that rings in his ears. It's not passion inducing.

So Pete finds Jon's room, but Jon is not in Jon's room, he's in the connecting rooms of Ryan and Brendon. Pete's a smart boy, he finds Jon there, too. Jon kisses him hello, presses his forehead to Pete's, enjoys the way their grins mirror each other's. Pete looks over at where Brendon is hanging backwards off the couch, blood rushing to his face. Pete asks, "Nerves?"

Jon hasn't been sleeping well, the sudden, crushing silence of Brendon’s cessation of singing last year, the peripheral knowledge of his descent to the stage coming to Jon at night, when he has no choice but to allow himself to think about it. He can't imagine either Ryan or Brendon has been doing much better. Spencer, he knows, wouldn't have come back. Spencer who will fucking come at you from the back and cut you if you so much as look at what is his the wrong way simply would have turned the invitation down. But Brendon said, "Hell yes, we'll be doing that shit," and Ryan just stood at his back. Jon can't blame him, but sometimes he wishes Brendon didn't have so fucking much to prove to himself, let alone anyone else.

Ryan comes over, keeping his motions slow. He hugs Pete tight, and Pete hugs back. Jon watches, waits for the telltale twinge of "hands fucking _off_ " but the hug is just a hug. Just a hello between friends, even friends with history. Jon glances at Brendon, who is watching, still upside down. He looks content to stay there. He says, "Hello."

Pete walks over and very deliberately reaches his hand out to tickle Brendon's stomach where his shirt has slipped down. Brendon shrieks and folds, sliding in a rather ungainly manner to the floor, where Pete just deepens the attack. Jon slides his gaze to Ryan who's biting his lower lip in a clear attempt not to laugh. Jon heads toward them, completely intent upon saving Brendon, but when he gets there, Pete looks up at him, eyes filled with happiness, and Brendon says, "Jon, Jon, you're my only hope," breathless and clearly having the time of his life and Jon does the only thing he can: he joins in.

 

 

*

The other guys come with him to Fall Out Boy's set, which Jon appreciates, because a show is good, but a show is better with other people who appreciate it. Pete sits them next to a girl with short blonde hair and her two friends, another woman with dark, curly hair and a man with deep-set eyes, holding Curly's hand. Jon knows he's seen them somewhere. It's Ryan who says, "You're Arcade Fire, right? I mean, part of it, anyway."

Curly holds out her hand, "I'm Regine. This is Win," she motions to the guy, who also holds out a hand. The blonde gives hers to Jon. "I'm Sarah. And you're Jon."

"Not that my fame never precedes me, but—" Jon stops. Goes back a few steps. "Sarah. Patrick's Sarah."

"At times," she says with a smile.

"Didn't put that together."

"I've noticed that Pete sometimes leaves out pertinent details." She says it fondly. Jon's pretty sure he would have been predisposed to like her in any case—he likes people, for the most part, particularly people who date his friends—but she's just won her case soundly.

Jon says, "Don't we all?"

She tilts her head then nods. "Yeah, probably true."

Brendon lands his chin on Jon's shoulder. "You play the violin," he says, dreamily, and Jon knows his conversational companion has been hijacked. He lets Brendon have her—ungentlemanly as that might be, she looks like a girl who can handle it--watching Ryan talk with Regine and Win, catching Spencer's eye at one point. Spencer smiles.

Fall Out Boy takes the stage and Jon couldn't pay attention to anything other than the way Pete slinks around that stage, the way he cuddles and cajoles his bass, the way he finds the music and throws it out to the crowd, couldn't if he tried. He has no interest in trying. At some point Ryan ends up beside him—Jon's not sure how—and says, "Do you even hear anything but him?"

Jon does, he hears everything, but he knows what Ryan is asking and it's not that, it's not about sound. "Not really." He asks, "Do you hear anything beyond Brendon?"

"Yes. But that's you and Spence."

Ryan has a point.

"You should give us up. Just for one show."

"Should I?"

"Yes," Jon says as Pete thrums his fingers over the strings, "Yes."

 

 

*

They go out for late night snacks afterward, all eleven of them. Sarah and Patrick both order massive ice cream sundaes. Jon puts a hand on Pete's thigh and squeezes under the table. "Not the only bad vegan," he says softly. Pete smiles down at his menu and orders chocolate cake with no flush of shame.

Jon hasn't been hungry since stepping off the plane, but he orders a side of "chips", just to have something to engage his hands with. When they come, Pete keeps watching him in what Jon knows he thinks is a stealth manner. Jon ends up eating the entire plate largely to keep him happy. He doesn't feel as much like throwing up as he thought he would.

Sarah lets Pete have all her cherries, Regine and Andy get involved in a serious conversation about Darfur that Brendon follows with wide and worried eyes, Win and Spencer talk about world-influenced percussive beats, Joe makes sculptures out of the silverware that seem to enrapture Ryan. All in all, it's the best night out Jon's had in some time. He shouldn't, but he watches Pete eat the damn cherries.

By the time they get back to the hotel, despite thinking of everything, _everything_ that usually helps--up to and including old men having sex with dogs--Jon is ready to go, more than ready. They end up in Pete's room, mostly because they follow Patrick and Sarah long enough to say goodnight. Pete asks, "Problem?"

"No, no problem," Jon says, and kisses Pete so hard that it hurts, his lips crushing back into his teeth. It can't feel much better for Pete, but Pete just meets his force, goes with it. Jon crumbles to the ground. It's not a fold or a slide or anything graceful, he just goes down, the words, "Wanted to— Whole time—" and then he's quiet, occupied with sucking. Pete buries his hands in Jon's hair, not pulling but holding tight, tight enough to hurt just a little. Jon likes the reminder that Pete's trying to keep him where he is.

It doesn't take very long. Pete is ready too, well beyond, the show and the rich molten chocolate of the cake building into the sort of arousal that only has one cure. Jon slips off of him, licks his lips in self-satisfaction. Pete says, "Yeah, yeah," but there's too much pleasure in it for there to be bite.

Pete _does_ slide to his knees, does reveal Jon just a little bit slowly, does watch Jon even as he lowers his mouth onto him. Jon keeps his eyes on Pete's even though he can't last, not doing that, not watching Pete go up and down, not even slowly. Pete's not trying to draw it out, not going for torture, and so Jon doesn't try and hold on. He can go back to that later. For now, he just lets have Pete whatever he wants.

 

 

*

Jon wakes to the tightness in his chest that's been insistent the last four or five days. He hasn't, so far as he can tell, been dreaming. Except that he knows he probably has; there is nothing dream-like about the scene his head can't stop playing. He slips from the bed to get himself some ice, run some water in the kitchenette.

Pete pads in when Jon's on his second glass. Jon grimaces. "Didn't mean to wake you." The last thing Jon needs to be stealing from Pete is sleep.

Pete tilts his head. "Makes us even, then."

"I don't mind being woken by you."

Pete just looks at him. Jon smiles down at his glass. "Okay."

"It’s almost over," Pete says.

"I've got an hour count going in my head," Jon tells him honestly.

Pete nods. "If it were Patrick I'd have a stopwatch. For the seconds."

Jon knows. This is the part they both understand. Apropos of nothing, he says, "I left Spence alone."

Pete follows. "You can check on him first thing in the morning. He might be sleeping."

Given the time difference, he's probably on the phone with Bob. That's not something Jon wants to interrupt, either. "Yeah, no, you're right." He sets in on his third glass of water.

Pete comes over and stands behind him, slides his hands, palms flat, all the way up Jon's back, settling the warmth over his shoulder blades. He kisses the back of Jon's head. Jon drinks too fast, chokes on the water. Pete rubs at his back through the convulsions, stays quiet. Jon says, "Okay. O-kay."

Pete laughs softly. "Wanna try something?"

"Sure," Jon says, because he's not going to act like all of Pete's ideas are bad. That's for other people to do.

Pete brings a hand around to Jon's neck, caresses a bit. "You're so—"

Jon doesn't ask what he is. Whatever it is, Pete doesn't seem displeased. Pete asks, "Wanna fuck me?"

Trick question. Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Just not at this moment. "I'd rather you took care of things."

Pete's fingers still. "I don't— That's not really—"

"Try for me? If you don't like it, I swear I'll never make you do it again."

"It's just, um."

Jon waits. If Pete can come up with a good reason for not doing things this way, he'll listen. He's learned to listen. Finally, all Pete asks is, "That's what you want?"

In this moment, it is _exactly_ what Jon wants, barring a few other, impossible things. "Yes."

"I can do that for you," Pete says, "for you."

_Only me._ Jon smiles, aware that Pete can't see it.

 

 

*

Pete asks, "Um, bed?"

"That sound good?"

Pete rests his cheek against Jon's back for a second. Then he decides, "Couch."

Jon follows him. Pete leaves him standing in front of the couch for a second, swiping condoms and lube from the nightstand. When he returns, he sits, pulling Jon onto his lap, bringing Jon's mouth to his, saying, "Hi," before kissing him. Jon lets himself feel the way Pete's arm is at his back, holding him close, holding him into the kiss, as if Jon might choose this moment to go somewhere. He pours himself into the kiss, because fear and worry and stress wait outside the circle of Pete's arms, but here, mouth to mouth, it is just the two of them, and they are made up of other, better things.

Pete tugs at Jon's hips a bit to get him to lift up so that Pete can slide Jon's boxers from him. Once they've worked together to accomplish this, Jon goes back to kissing Pete. They deserve a reward for their teamwork. He never even hears the popping of the cap on the lube, but Pete must pour some onto his hand, must rub it in a bit, because his palm is slick and warm over Jon's cock. Jon bites Pete's lower lip. There will be marks he'll have to explain away. Jon can't wait to hear what he says. Lies are always more exciting when a person knows the truth. Pete pulls his lip from Jon's teeth to smile. "Behave."

"Why?" Jon asks.

"Because I said so."

Jon laughs, the laughter catching when Pete squeezes. It's almost too much of a squeeze, almost pain, only Pete knows exactly when to stop. That's a little surprising. "Listening?" Pete asks.

"Always," Jon tells him. He tries, at least.

Pete relaxes his grip but doesn't let go. "Over the arm of the sofa."

Jon's cock twitches at the thought of Pete behind him, Pete driving in. He makes himself breathe. Then he follows instructions. Pete's hands are light, unsure on his back, but his teeth sink in to the left cheek of Jon's ass with determination. Jon yelps. Pete laughs. "Payback's a bitch." The right cheek does not escape Pete's vengeance.

Pete inserts a finger, wet and a little cold, like he forgot the middle step but that's okay, because Jon likes that feeling any way it comes, likes the first push of invasion. "Yeah, yeah."

A second finger and Pete finds Jon's prostate, pokes at it a bit insistently. Jon thinks, "Just like that." He asks, "Why?"

Which, okay, it probably makes sense that Pete asks, "Huh?" in response to that.

"Why don't you do this?" Jon wants to know. Pete's fingers are so _nice_. His cock has to be better.

"Um." Pete adds a third finger. "I just always— Nobody ever asked."

Jon would make the point that perhaps _Pete_ should have asked, except that Pete is distracting him with the brilliance that is his cock. It's not the best part about him, but Jon fucking loves it all the same. Loves it. "Pete," Jon says.

"Jesus," Pete breathes. Jon laughs, breathless and pleased and not as knowing as he thought he would be.

" _Jon_."

"Would you— Move, sweetheart, just a bit, all right?" Because if Pete doesn't Jon is going to have to take care of things himself, and Pete said he would. Pete said he would, so he will. Pete moves. Pete moves and Jon's eyes roll into the back of his head at the utter glide of the two of them together, the heat and fit and closeness of it all. "Exactly," Jon moans, his tongue caressing each consonant. Pete licks at his back and Jon digs his hands into the couch, holding on with everything he's got. Pete pulls back a little, tugs at Jon's hips, bringing Jon onto him, slipping his hand down, back around Jon's cock.

Jon tries to expand in every direction, push himself into as much Pete's touch as he can. The effort brings him off, over Pete's hand, over the couch. Pete is muttering, "So good, so good, so fucking good," when he devolves into nothing but breath, nothing but skin and sound and pleasure. Jon lets every part of him in.

 

 

*

They wake up in bed the next morning, and Jon takes a couple of minutes to remember how they got there. Pete must have taken care of it. He knows he didn't. He remembers Pete cleaning them up, the water warm and the towel soft and Pete's touch too light, not enough. Jon had complained. Pete had given him a hickey. Jon touches Pete now, his hand curling around the erection that Pete hasn't quite woken to, not just yet. Jon takes it slow, waits for Pete to wake to the sensation of everything being taken care of. Pete awakens with the word, "Jon," on his lips and Jon nearly comes himself. _Patience._ He keeps things slow, nearly until Pete has to ask, has say, "please," but not quite.

Sated, Pete rolls onto Jon with a small moan, presses his thigh in between Jon's legs, against his cock and begins rubbing. "Sleep better?"

Jon takes a breath. Then another. "Sleep?"

Pete snorts, rubs more deeply. "I'll ask again later."

Jon would pay attention, really he would, except that Pete's thigh is warm and heavy and fucking perfect against his cock, so Pete's just going to have to wait for coherence. When Jon has finished, Pete lays on him and asks, "Seriously, how'd you sleep?"

"Better. Quieter." Pete's question reminds Jon that there are things they have to talk about. He tells him, "I really hope you enjoyed last night, because that part where I said I'd never ask you for it again if you didn't? I might have been lying."

"I wouldn't worry about it too much," Pete tells him.

"Oh, good." Jon grins. It fades a little as he asks, "Nobody? I mean, nobody ever— Not even Mikey?"

"Mikey didn't like to ask for things," Pete says softly. Jon realizes that this is a bit inimical to Mikey Way's personality, but he would have thought Mikey would have noticed that Pete _needs_ to be asked, sometimes. That he only transgresses when the boundaries don't seem all that significant, or when they are all _too_ significant.

"And nobody else—"

"I have a nice ass," Pete tells Jon, as if Jon might have missed this fact.

"You have a really fucking nice cock," Jon points out.

Pete shrugs. "It's kinda funny looking."

"No," Jon disagrees, "it's really not."

Pete doesn't say anything.

"Why didn't you ask? I mean, sometimes you know how."

"Mostly with you. That's sort of new."

"Oh."

Pete says, "I tried, once, but it was the wrong thing, the wrong thing to ask and just-- Stupid."

Jon hisses, "Not. Stupid," his arms coming up over and around Pete's back. Pete huddles into the hold. Jon says, "I'm glad you'd never done it. I'm glad that's mine and all mine and only ever going to be mine."

"Possessive much?"

Yes, and Jon's surprised by that, because while he's always known he was protective, the urge to kill anything that would take Spencer or Brendon or Ryan or Pete is a recent development, and until now, he'd thought it was a band thing. “If you had a Pete Wentz, you'd be possessive, too."

"I have him, and I'm not sure I am." Pete has a point.

"Well, then, someone has to be. Might as well be me."

"Definitely. Definitely you."

 

 

*

Arcade Fire goes on slightly later than Panic so one half of Fall Out Boy camps out behind the stage as Saturday wears on. Jon is really, really glad Panic is on Pete's label, otherwise it would probably look a little suspicious. Brendon is completely, wholly spastic, which leaves Ryan doing his best to see if he can get Brendon to contain the worst of it until they're on stage, until he can just let go. Spencer and Jon are both watching. For the most part Ryan has let Brendon do whatever the hell he feels like since the whole combined person fixing effort, but there's always a chance that Brendon will push something just a step further than Ryan knows how to go. Finally, Ryan mutters, "Fuck," snaps, "Brendon," and turns to march toward the bathroom. Brendon _runs_ after him. Jon reaches out and rubs at the back of Spencer's neck.

"It would be so much easier if I could just be proud of him and be done with it." Spencer says softly. Pete's eyes are concerned, but he keeps them on Jon and Spencer, doesn't let them stray to where Ryan and Brendon have disappeared.

"He's gonna do fine," Jon says, infusing more surety than he feels into the statement. Confidence in Ryan he has in spades. Surety is something else. It's a long hour and a half of watching other bands warm up, chat, laugh. Pete is careful not to touch Jon, which is smart, because Jon isn't sure he could keep from wrapping him up, protecting what he can, what is his to protect.

When Ryan and Brendon resurface, Brendon's hands are still. They haven't been up until now. Nothing has been. Ryan looks as surprised at himself as Jon feels. It's a little bit of a betrayal, since Spencer just looks so fucking proud, so awed, but Jon hasn't known Ryan as long, so he's allowed. Brendon asks, "How long?" but he's smiling as he asks.

Pete looks at his Sidekick. "Less than an hour."

"Today is fucking _ours_ ," Spencer tells Brendon, low and intent.

"And then some," Ryan agrees.

"Let's leave a little for Arcade," Jon says generously.

"But only because I like Patrick," Brendon nods.

Pete laughs. Jon looks at him.

"You match when you smile," Brendon says. Jon's smile gets just a touch wider.

 

 

*

Pete finally manages to get to Panic after they've done all the post-show interviews and have convened in Jon's hotel room. He says, "That's it. As your label-owner I'm putting my foot down. No more Reading for you."

Spencer narrows his eyes, which makes Pete's stomach hurt a little, and Brendon says, "Dude, did you _see_ how many people were watching us?" Ryan takes a second, looks at Jon and says, "Yeah, okay, we'll see," collects the other two and goes off with them.

Jon says, "Pete, there isn't even a bruise."

Pete frowns. "You got hit in the forehead with a bottle full of water. There's a bruise. It might not be visible, but there's a bruise."

"I'm just saying, I was more than able to stay on my feet." Jon sounds kind of elated about that. "And none of them got so much as grazed."

"Spencer had to stand at his fucking kit at one point."

"Really?" Jon asks.

"Yes," Pete stresses, thinking he might be making headway.

"Holy shit, I didn't even hear him go off beat."

"He didn't."

"Spencer Smith is my fucking hero."

Wait, no, clearly this is not going the way Pete has intended it to go. "Jon."

"Pete." Jon laughs, leans up a little and tugs Pete down to where he can kiss him. "I'm fine, stop worrying."

Pete glares at Jon. "Why? You get to worry all the time."

Jon leans back, looks at Pete consideringly. "Is that what this is about? You want to fuss?"

Pete rolls his eyes. "It's not fussing, Jon Walker, if someone on my label—"

Jon kisses him. "I'm sorry, you were saying?"

"If my _boyfriend_ —"

"Better."

"Gets hit in the _fucking face_ with a _flying projectile_ and I want to make sure he's not brain-damaged, which, clearly, is not the case in this instance."

Jon laughs again. Pete says, "Oh—"

"No, no, sorry, it's just—" Jon goes in for some more kissing. "Sweet. It's sweet, sweetheart."

"I hate you," Pete informs him.

"As well you should," Jon agrees. "But when you get over that, you wanna, erm, _fuss_ over me?"

Pete's waited a while for engraved invitations. He's not going to start turning them down now. "If you have a concussion and I accidentally kill you—"

Jon is still laughing, even as his lips stop Pete's from forming the threat.

 

 

*

Pete sends him the article on fineline electro-cautery branding and Jon spends two days letting Brendon kick his ass at Guitar Hero until Spencer says, "Maybe you should call Mikey."

Jon looks over at Spencer who's pretending to pay attention to the latest sheet of music Ryan's given him. "Mikey?"

"Sometimes it seems like it's easier for you to talk the Pete stuff out with him." Spencer's voice is so neutral it almost sounds like white noise. It's a thought. A good one, even. Jon wishes he could tell Spencer, wishes he could give him this, but there are parts of Pete that aren't for consumption, not even by people who wouldn't abuse the offering.

He tries calling Mikey, tries and tries, but in the end he can never get his fingers to hit the right button. Finally he gives up and calls Patrick. Patrick picks up with, "Bizarrely, I was getting pretty close to calling you."

Patrick doesn't sound panicked, though, so Jon just asks, "He okay?"

"Considering taking Joe up on his offers to share the weed, which he only does when he's stressed the hell out."

Jon wishes there was someone in his band who would offer him weed. "I told him I needed to think about something."

"What kind of something?"

Jon hasn't exactly thought about what to say in this moment, about how much context to give, if any at all. Patrick has a lot of context in general, but this is sort of outside of even that, Jon thinks.

"Jon?"

"Sorry, thinking."

"Doing a lot of that these days."

Jon smiles, says it before the vague ghost of humor can wear off, leave him frozen. "He wants to get a brand."

"Um." Patrick pauses. "Okay, maybe it's a stupid question, but we're talking the burning-a-design-into-your-skin type brand, right?"

If Jon were in Patrick's shoes, he'd probably be asking, too. "That type. And the thing is, I know it's his decision, I haven't any right to it, really, only he asked and it would be part of me that he'd be putting on his body."

"He asked though. That's pretty— Well. He asked."

Which means Jon has to answer. To say no is to be as censorious of Pete as the people Pete is always hearing in his head, as Pete himself. To say yes is to agree to let Pete let someone put _fire_ to his body, to burn him so badly the scar will never heal.

"There aren't—" Patrick starts.

"Yes?" Jon prompts.

"There aren't that many ways a person can mark himself without pain. And if ink wasn't enough for Pete, I kinda doubt metal's gonna be either."

Jon—who had been considering the intense hotness that would be a guiche piercing on Pete—has to agree. "I think he wants to design it, to know exactly what it means. He can't do that with metal." No, when Pete knows what he wants, he knows, and that's the killer. Pete _wants_ this, is asking and Jon is making him wait, making him feel like maybe he did something wrong when he actually did everything right. "Patrick?"

"Got yourself there?"

"Thanks."

"Uh huh."

Jon hangs up and dials Pete straight away before he loses his clarity of mind. Pete says, "It was just a thought."

"No, it wasn't."

"Not just, I guess."

"I was sort of looking forward to the guiche piercing I had dreamed up for you, but I can live with my disappointment."

Pete's silent for a minute.

"I mean it."

"I know. I was trying to figure out why the two had to be mutually exclusive."

"Oh," Jon breathes.

"You think that would be hot?"

"You standing still is hot," Jon points out.

"I'll keep it in mind."

So will Jon. He'll never be able to get it _out_ of his mind.

"So I get my brand?"

"We do," Jon tells him, unaware until that second that this is how it has to work, how it has to be. "We get a brand. Same spot, same brand. Did you have an idea?"

"Jon—"

"Idea?"

"A bass note. I was going to have it be a bass note."

"I'd say that's just about perfect."

"You don't have to—"

"Neither do you."

"I _want_ to," Pete reminds him.

"What's to say I don't?" Jon asks.

"You don't like pain?" Pete tries.

"No, but I love you."

Pete stutters for a second and then goes silent. He comes back with, "You're gonna use that to win every argument, aren't you?"

"Probably," Jon admits. He's not always noble.

"Shit."

 

 

*

The Skittle Brendon has just put into his mouth falls out. "You're going to _what_?"

Jon probably should have waited until he had finished chewing. Spencer and Ryan are silent, but Ryan has his hip pressed into Brendon's side. Brendon puts a hand at Ryan's back. Spencer has his hands held pretty tightly between his legs. Jon repeats, "I am going to get a brand."

There's silence this time, real silence, as Brendon doesn't even twist the knob on his candy machine for more Skittles. Spencer asks, "Where?"

"Left forearm."

"I meant where are you having the procedure done?"

"Oh. Tattoo parlor that specializes. I can show you online."

"Why?" Ryan asks, looking validly worried.

Jon isn't sure what he has to tell him will make it any better. "Pete and I decided we wanted them." And yeah, that's the abbreviated version of the story, but it doesn't make it not true. Oddly, this pronouncement seems to relieve Spencer, who releases his hands and works some of the tightness out of them. Brendon, however, says, "But. Ow."

"You weren't exactly thrilled while getting your tattoo," Jon says. Brendon was actually pretty good about it, but he'd been a little bit woozy afterward and had slept a lot that night.

"But people get tattoos," Brendon says, enunciating each word.

"People get brands, too. That's why the service is available."

Brendon frowns. Spencer asks, "Is he gonna come here or you go there? Or are you getting it done separately?"

"We'll be out in LA in a month, he was gonna meet up with me. Maybe Patrick, too." Which, "maybe Patrick" means probably the whole band. That's okay, Jon doubts he's going to be able to get any of his guys to wait at home, either. Tellingly, Brendon relaxes a notch when he realizes Jon's not going to just disappear off and do this. Jon asks, "Ryan?" because he hasn't said much, and Ryan's generally a good barometer as to how Jon is doing with Pete.

"You decided."

Jon nods.

"But he asked." It's not a question. Ryan knows both of them too well.

"He _asked_ ," Jon says, which is slightly different than what Ryan said. "Not for me. For himself."

Ryan nods slowly. "That's pretty permanent. I mean, worse comes to worse, Spencer could always have laser surgery."

"You really think I'm ever going to want to erase him? And even if I did, it's a bass note. That's...more than just the two of us."

"We're all kind of monogamous and boring, huh?" Brendon asks.

Spencer nods. "Totally boring."

 

 

*

The parlor doesn't have a huge waiting area, so Brendon ends up sitting on Spencer's lap, Ryan on the floor at their feet. Andy takes the other chair and Joe and Patrick mill around looking at the possible designs. Pete takes the parlor's paperwork from Jon's hands, because they're making the shaking more obvious and Pete doesn't want the others seeing, even though he knows they won't judge. Softly he says, "You don't have to."

"I want to."

Pete nods. He remembers how he was before his first tattoo, and that was a considerably gentler initiation into the world of body modification than Jon's about to receive. Pete hopes it doesn't turn Jon off for life. Pete says, "We had this place sign non-disclosure agreements through Decay's representation."

Jon tilts his head. "We're getting them in publicly viewable spots. And I'm pretty sure we had planned on telling people we got them together. Hardcore bassist creed and all that."

"I'm pretty sure we don't plan on telling people how I held you while it was being done, how I whispered things in your ear to give you something other than the pain to think about." The thought alone makes Pete hard, which is embarrassing, but Jon knows him, knows him and doesn't judge.

"Hm, maybe not."

"You were going to hold me too, weren't you?" It has actually never occurred to Pete that Jon might not. Jon is always holding Pete up when he needs it.

"I was going to let you have my hand, even if you broke it. I didn't know we had forms. If I had known we had forms there could have been elaborate plans."

Pete raises an eyebrow. "I'll consider myself punished for not telling. Next time, next time you'll be the first to know. Right after legal."

"How'd legal take that?"

"Much the way they take everything involving me. We hired some stone-cold motherfuckers."

Jon laughs. Pete says, "I won't let it hurt any more than it has to."

Jon says, "I know you won't."

Pete's gaze catches to where Patrick has surreptitiously stopped perusing the art and focused in on them. Patrick smiles at him a little. Pete returns the smile quickly and tells Jon, "You'd better do the same."

Jon says, "You got yourself into this mess."

Pete looks straight at Jon. "Only mess I've never wanted to clean up."

 

 

*

Pete tells Jon, "You go first." He doesn't want Jon to have to watch before, have to build up any anxiety.

Jon frowns. "I won't have both arms to hold you with."

Pete only ever needs the slightest touch from Jon. "One will do."

"Pete—"

But Pete, who has no problem folding to Jon in just about any way imaginable knows now the exact ways in which he can be intractable, precisely how far he can bend Jon beneath his will. Pretty fucking far. He tries to be responsible about it. "You first."

The artist, despite being twice Pete's size and having tribal art burnt onto every inch of her body—including her scalp—has a kind smile, a patient look to her. Jon's clearly not the first nervous client she's ever had. There's a medical bed in the center of the room. Pete lays on his side and tucks Jon against him, the arm getting the work done laying flat on the surface. The artist says, "Bass notes, huh? I'm gonna assume from the non-disclosures that you guys are people I would know if I stopped listening to salsa and house for long enough to pay attention to anything else."

Jon says, "Maybe."

_Salsa and house?_

Jon asks, "What kinda house?" His voice is shaking. Pete would tighten his hold, but he wants Jon able to breath. Jon needs to be able to breath.

She touches the fire cutter to his skin. "I don't pay much attention to names."

Which is for the best, because Jon's not listening anyway, Pete knows. Pete whispers, "I watched a baseball game, Indians versus Blue Jays, I like the Blue Jays uniforms, and there was this one play where the outfielder caught the fly ball and threw it to second and then second guy to home, triple play, you know, and I thought you'd like that, all the action, but mostly that they just worked together, and it was so fluid, it was better than some songs. I saved that up to tell you now, but I'll tell you again later, when you can understand.

"I do things all the time mostly so that I can tell you about them, which is sort of stupid and I would feel codependent, except that I end up enjoying them, so maybe I should have broadened my world before meeting you, but I'm glad I didn't. I'm glad you brought me that." When Pete can't, absolutely can't come up with anything else to say, he sings, “We do it in the dark, with smiles on our faces…” By the time he finishes the song, salsa-and-house-girl is wrapping Jon's arm. Pete whispers, "Love you," because that's sort of important and he somehow forgot to say it.

Jon says, "Me too."

Pete figures that if he can say it now, it's probably true.

 

 

*

Pete doesn't like pain, it isn't something he seeks out with an eye toward a trade-off for pleasure. That said, Pete's not going to be making the argument that there aren't times when it doesn't get Pete the places he needs to go. Pete puts a chair next to the table and sits Jon in it, since he's looking a little pale. Pete asks, "Need me to go get one of yours?"

Jon shakes his head. Pete watches him for a moment and when he's satisfied that Jon's just a little crumpled around the edges--as opposed to about to pass out--he hops up on the table. Jon offers his hand immediately. Pete takes it. The branded arm is tucked safely against him.

The first touch of heat is painful, but Pete has known pain. It is not until the third, fourth, fifth touches that the pain becomes something else, walks the raised edge of unbearable. Pete takes a breath and walks with it. He can still feel Jon's hand. Jon is the first to say to him, "All done," although the artist follows on the comment very shortly. She sounds amused, but not meanly so.

The pain evens out, the sharpness of it dulling to a constant throb. Pete gives the world a moment to settle into place, to not be quite so breathtaking. Jon asks, "Patrick?"

Pete laughs. Shakes his head. He sits up and can feel the way blood finds all the spots it couldn't get to before. Can feel _everything_. Jon tilts his head. "Hey."

"Adrenaline high," Pete tells him. He can recognize the feeling now.

"You're pretty hardcore."

Pete laughs again. His feet find the floor. When they leave the branding room, Spencer, Brendon and Ryan are still huddled together. The look of relief on their faces makes Pete laugh again. He really can't help it. Spencer rolls his eyes. "Fuck off."

Ryan nudges Spencer with his shoulders. "Hey, language."

Brendon's already on his way over. He touches Jon's face and looks at Pete. "He's pale."

"So's _Pete_ ," Joe points out in one of his odd, but not unheard of, moments of ferocity.

Pete says, "It hurt."

Jon nods at the understatement and doesn't add anything.

"We want to go back to the hotel and lie down."

Jon's nod at that is pretty emphatic. Pete has a whole bottle of Tylenol waiting for them back at the hotel.

Spencer says, "I'll drive."

Patrick steals the keys from off of Pete's belt loop, "Yep, me too."

Pete follows Patrick and the keys. Jon follows Pete.

 

 

*

They each take four extra-strength Tylenols upon returning. Spencer says, "Maybe you guys should eat something, get your blood sugar up a little."

Patrick finds the room service menu and orders them both spaghetti with meat sauce. Pete's glad Patrick got him to see reason on the vegan/vegetarian thing. Andy's awesome, but also Andy, and therefore by definition, not Pete. Jon seems to think that's okay. Jon seems to think a lot of the ways in which Pete fails to be someone else's type of awesome are okay. They both plow through the food. Patrick tells Spencer, "Good thinking, evidently."

Spencer says, "I got two tattoos in one sitting my first time out."

Pete blinks. "That was..."

"Ill-advised?" Spencer nods. "Should have asked you or Andy first. Didn't think about it."

"You have _two_ tattoos?" Joe asks.

"He won't let you see the other one," Pete tells him, not entirely free of petulance. Joe looks impressed.

Jon starts to weave a little bit in his chair and Pete says, "Bedtime."

Ryan picks Jon right out of the chair, utterly careful and surprisingly sturdy. Pete watches him for a second but doesn't say anything. He probably should have noticed that about Ryan Ross before now. Brendon clearly has, because he just walks on Jon's other side, measuring his steps to Jon's. Pete follows, the buzz of the high wearing off, but the carb-induced energy replacing it a little. Jon lays down on his back so that Pete can curl over him on the side that isn't hurting.

Once Pete is settled, Jon looks up at the other six and says, "We're gonna nap now, so if you could maybe stop hanging around the bed, that would be less freaky."

Andy snorts and turns to go, Patrick, Joe and Spencer close on his heels. Ryan narrows his eyes just a bit before turning, tugging Brendon along by his belt loop. Jon kisses Pete's head. "I actually am going to pass out now."

"You go on ahead." Pete will catch up.

 

 

*

Pete gets asked about the brand first. He gets asked about the brand while it's still healing, still throbbing every time he plays his bass and he sort of loves that, sort of loves having Jon there with him like that. He hopes Jon feels the same way, because that would be a stupid thing to lose a perfectly good boyfriend over. Really stupid. And Pete might get his heart broken a little.

Ann Curry asks him about it when they perform for The Today Show, she says, "Rumor has it that one of the guys in a band under your label, Panic! at the Disco, also has one in that exact same spot."

He says, "We have a bassist's creed," with a straight face, an unusually straight face for him, actually.

She laughs. "A bassist's creed? And what would that be, exactly?"

"I could tell you," he tells her, "but I'd have to kill you."

More laughter, and like that, she lets it go. Pete emails Jon the link to the YouTube so that they have their stories straight. It isn't a complicated story.

Jon calls him and says, "Um, have you checked the message boards?"

"You shouldn't read that shit, it's bad for your health."

"Says the guy who sent Ryan the story about us gangbanging him."

"Well, that was just funny."

"It was funny until he withheld sex from Brendon for a week. Then it wasn't. Funny."

"Really?"

"Pete, Jesus. You slept with him. You know the guy."

"Sorry?"

Jon is silent for a second. "It _was_ kinda funny."

"Next time I'll send Brendon something. For revenge, you know."

"Maybe not, Pete."

"No, it'll be good."

Jon sighs. "I don't do mean things to _your_ band."

"I think you just stated the basic difference between you and me. I'm the bad boyfriend."

"No, Pete."

"Joke."

"Don't even joke about that."

"You usually have a pretty good sense of humor."

"Not about people saying shit about you. Ever."

Pete takes a breath. Swallows. Says, "Stop turning me on," because it's less intense than most of the things he wants to say.

"Why?"

"Oh," Pete says. Jon laughs.

 

 

*

Panic throws a pre-production party for the CD because, well, because they’re finally in the studio and it's a chance to throw a party. Okay, mostly because Jon says, "I think if the label threw a party, Pete would pretty much have to make an appearance," and the other three take pity on him. They all know that the last time he saw Pete, the only thing the two of them were hitting up was massive doses of Tylenol every few hours.

When he arrives, Pete says, "This was really smart of you, finishing an album, you should do it more often," smiles at Ryan and Brendon and Spencer and all but manhandles Jon to the nearest bedroom. Pete closes the door behind them and covers Jon's brand with his left palm. "Here's the thing."

"There's a thing?" Jon's pretty sure there's not. They're both there, Jon has condoms, no things. He closes his hand over Pete's brand, their arms clasped between their chests.

"I know that you sort of... I know your preferences, and it's not that I don't like your preferences, I _like_ your preferences, it's just that every once in a while—"

"You want me to fuck you?" Jon interrupts. Normally he would let Pete finish, but they really haven't seen each other in quite some time. Pete nods, eyes hopeful. Jon would have to be a complete dick to dash out that hope. He tugs Pete even closer in and kisses him. "All you had to do was ask."

Jon maneuvers Pete's arms so that they are pinning Jon to the wall, the brand right where Jon can shift his face and press his mouth to it. He alternates between that and kissing Pete for quite some time. Even with all he gets to do now, kissing has never ceased to be one of his favorite parts of all this. Jon tugs Pete's shirt off of him, and revels in the map of marked skin, familiar and yet so long missing. Jon says, "Hi," and kisses the brand again, letting his fingers kiss at the ink that has nothing to do with him, but is Pete's, and therefore, his.

Jon would sort of like to drag this out, but there will be other opportunities and he's kind of missed Pete. In ways he can't even begin to talk about. He pushes at Pete's pants. Pete helps by kicking his shoes off, lifting his feet. Jon kisses at the brand again. "Over the bed? Lay yourself out for me?"

Pete nods.

"I like to look," Jon admits.

"Yeah." Pete smiles. "I like it when you do." He sounds surprised. Jon can't be. He's seen the way Pete looks at other people who take their fill. Evidently Pete agrees that what is his is Jon's. Pete bends himself over the edge of the bed and for a long moment, all Jon can do is look. Then he makes himself shed his outer layer, move to where Pete is waiting so very, very patiently for Jon.

Jon spreads himself over Pete. He asks, "How do you like this?"

"How do you like giving it?"

"Ah ah."

"Jon," a whine.

"I asked first."

"But I like surprises."

"Hm," Jon says against the back of Pete's neck, then drops down to finish his, "fair enough," along the ridge of Pete's ass.

Pete says, "Oh." He sounds surprised again. Jon goes about surprising him some more. He waits until Pete breaks, until he sobs, to rise up, slap a condom and some lube on and go in hard and fast. He thinks Pete's the kind of guy who likes taking it on occasion, like rising to whatever challenge is presented. Pete slams himself back onto Jon's cock with a gasped, "Yes," and Jon knows he's guessed right.

Jon says, "Stretch your arms out. I want to see. I want to see."

Pete stretches them, rotates them so that their mark is facing up, so that Jon can see how much of him Pete has allowed into himself. As if it isn't completely obvious. Jon doesn't care. He wants to be greedy. Pete makes him greedy. Pete spoils him.

"Beautiful," Jon draws out the word, whispers it straight into Pete's ear, shoots it right into his blood.

Pete says, "Jon."

Jon stretches his left arm directly in front of Pete's eyes. "Can you come? Just from looking? Just from knowing how much I'm yours? Can you?"

Pete takes one look and does as Jon has asked. It doesn't even take another look for Jon.

 

 

*

Pete doesn't recognize the voice that wakes him up, not at first, which only makes things worse. He jerks away from the hands that are touching him. The voice says, "Okay. Okay."

It is a reassurance. It takes Pete a moment to register this fact, a moment to register anything other than the sick thud of his heart, the fact that he can't remember where he is. The further the nightmare recedes the more things click into place and Pete makes himself turn, makes himself say, "Hi, Spencer."

Spencer's expression is inscrutable. "Hi, Pete."

"Did I lose Jon?" He remembers Jon being in the room when he fell asleep. Maybe he should have kept a closer watch.

"He ran to the grocery store. Said there was something else he needed for dinner."

Oh. Not lost then. Just temporarily misplaced. "Ryan and Brendon?"

"Um."

"Oh."

Spencer nods. Pete looks over at the television. It's on pause. "Sorry I interrupted."

Spencer rolls his eyes. "Okay, if I touch you now?"

Pete isn't sure what that means, but he doesn't think Spencer looks pissed, so he nods. Spencer nudges him up a little, surprisingly gentle for all his brusqueness. Pete goes easily, and doesn't fight when Spencer pulls him onto his lap, rubs gently at his stomach. Pete isn't even aware he's still shaking until he notices the action under Spencer's fingers. Spencer's other arm is solid around his back. Drummers have good arms. Pete says, "I'm fine."

"Shut up, I like fixing things. And Jon steals my thunder a lot."

Pete nestles a little bit closer. "I'm sorry about Ryan and Brendon."

Spencer's quiet for a bit, and Pete would think he's made a mistake only Spencer's grip doesn't tighten, his stroking doesn't slacken. Finally he says, "I know. But it's nice of you to say."

"And for hurting Jon."

" _Don't_ do it again."

Pete flounders. "I—"

"I mean like that. I mean deliberately."

"No." And Pete means it. If he hurts Jon deliberately it will be with his teeth or his hands and it will be because Jon smiles at him and says, " _Mm, yes_." Spencer plays with the hair at the nape of Pete's neck. Pete tries to stop himself, but the happy noise he makes is just inevitable. Spencer's responding smile isn't mocking.

 

 

*

Jon returns with graham crackers for pie crust and bananas and chocolate so as to make the pie filling and a boyfriend who's asleep on his bandmate. Not, so far as Jon remembers, the bandmate most likely to allow Pete to fall asleep on him. Spencer puts a finger to his lips and yeah, Jon was already there. He mouths, "Everything okay?"

Spencer mouths back, "Nightmare."

Jon sits next to Spencer on the couch, carefully pulling Pete's feet into his lap. Pete doesn't so much as stir. Spencer asks, softly, "Are they usually that bad?"

Jon shrugs. Pete's sort of sensitive about them, and despite the fact that Spencer's clearly not taking advantage, Jon isn't really up to betraying Pete in that way.

"That sucks," Spencer says.

Jon nods. There's no denying it. It really does. "Thanks for—" Jon strokes gently along Pete's sweats-covered calf.

Spencer glances over at Jon. "He burned you into his skin."

"I—"

"Uh uh. I _know_ you, Jon. You didn't come up with that idea. Maybe after he told you you decided you wanted it too, or maybe he asked, I don't know. But it wasn't your idea. He wanted you that permanently on his flesh. I know the feeling."

Jon nods. He's since seen flashes of Spencer's other tattoo.

"I just had to be sure, all right?"

"Wait." Jon frowns. "This was about— I thought— Ryan and Brendon—" Jon gives up. Either Spencer will understand or he won't. Jon hasn't a clue which one he would prefer.

Spencer's eyes are sharp. "No, Jon. You."

"Oh."

"How do you stand being in a band with three guys you think are complete assholes?"

"No, Spence."

"Because—"

"No. It's just, you and Ryan—"

"I know. But we care, Jon. We give a crap."

Jon looks at Pete, tucked into Spencer's chest, sleeping quietly. "I know. I do."

"Yeah, okay."

Jon smacks Spencer's arm. "Dickface."

"Cumwhore."

Jon laughs. "That's love."

"You know it, bitch."

 

 

*

Ryan finds Jon and sits across the room looking utterly miserable until Jon says, "Wanna tell me about it?"

Ryan puts his hands flat on the floor and says, "You're allowed to hate me, I understand if you do, but please don't leave the band, okay? Because Spencer and Brendon—"

"Whoa, hey, Ryan. Breathe."

Jon starts to walk across the room but when Ryan flinches he stops and sits in the middle of it. He tries not to take it personally. "I'm not gonna leave the band."

"Could you promise?"

Jon has seen Ryan terrified before, but not quite like this. He says, "I promise, Ry."

Ryan nods, swallows a little. He doesn't look at Jon. "I was talking. With Pete. And he— It was ten minutes ago and I don't even know what we were talking about, except that it was you and sex and joking and I said—" Ryan covers his mouth and turns the pastiest color Jon has ever seen anyone manage while still living. Deciding that it's the lesser of two evils, Jon hauls Ryan up by his belt loops and situates him over the toilet before he can puke all over the floor. He rubs at Ryan's back through the worst of it, and flushes the toilet when he's done.

"Okay," Jon says softly.

"I thought he knew. I swear, I thought— I figured— You're so honest."

"Wasn't exactly my story to tell, was it?"

"I'm not sure we deserved any consideration on that front," Ryan tells him, resting his cheek on the porcelain rim of the toilet. Jon nudges him up and gets him to rinse his face and mouth before taking him into the other room, lying face to face with him on the bed.

"You promised," Ryan reminds him in a whisper.

"It's okay, Ryan."

"It's not—"

"What did Pete say?"

"What?"

"What did—"

"No, I mean, he said, 'what?' and then I stuttered and said, 'I thought—' and then I probably hung up on him."

Jon is pretty sure that if he gets through this with a boyfriend, he will find this enormously funny later. "Okay."

"Jon, I— Fuck, I didn't mean—"

"It's okay, Ryan. It's okay. You didn't mean to hurt anybody. Sometimes mistakes happen."

"You fixed us. And then I fucked—"

"Just a mistake, Ryan. That's all. Calm down. I'm not leaving the band."

Ryan takes in a shaky breath. "Sorry."

"Close your eyes," Jon says. Ryan gives in with only slight hesitation. Jon waits until his breathing evens out.

 

 

*

Unsurprisingly, when he checks his phone, Pete has called him six times. There are also four text messages that all say the same thing: "call me". Jon texts, "I wasn't ignoring you. Ryan was hysterical," a minute before he calls. When Pete picks up, he asks, "Ryan okay?"

"He's sleeping. He will be."

"Jon—"

"It wasn't my story to tell."

"Except that you were there. Except that you slept with Brendon Urie, who you were in love with. Except that it _was_."

Jon sighs. "I'm going to tell you this, and you'll either have to understand that it wasn't, or not, but I can't change that it happened."

"I— Okay."

"Ryan— Look, you of all people know how Ryan was always doing shit to fuck him and Brendon up. And Ryan doesn't know, not really, not unless you told him, about me and how I felt, anymore than Brendon does, but he knew I wanted Brendon and he thought maybe it would be better for Brendon, so he sent Brendon to me, only I changed the rules and drew Ryan into it and made him understand that it was Ryan Brendon wanted, only Ryan. And yes, I slept with him, because it was— I'm a guy, Pete. I'm a guy and I was in love with him and he fucking offered and I knew, I _knew_ it was just the once, and maybe it was worse for that, except that it did help them and they were better for a long, long time."

"That— That must have hurt like a bitch."

Jon doesn't like to think about it. "Not half as much as it's going to if you leave me over this."

"How did you— How the hell did you stay in a band with them?"

Pete doesn't sound mad, but Jon can't help wondering if he's just building to it. "They're my friends, Pete. They needed my help. I don't... They didn't mean to hurt me and I don't begrudge them that they asked."

"Jesus fucking wept, Jon."

Jon is quiet. He can't apologize for this, not even to keep Pete, he can't.

"If they ask again, the answer's no."

"No shit, Pete."

"You're mine."

"Yes."

"When Ryan wakes up, tell him to call me. And that the next time he hangs up on me, your band is going to have to find a new label."

"He'll believe you."

"I know. He's so beautifully easy."

Jon laughs. "Pete."

"Tell me you love me."

"In the most ridiculous of ways."

"Yeah. Me too."

"Okay." Jon breathes. "Okay."

 

 

*

Pete's kisses are just slightly more inquisitive than they generally are. Jon doesn't think much of it. Pete is a changeable being, and it's been over a month since they last saw each other. Jon just kisses back like he always does and lets Pete read what he needs to. Nothing has changed, not for Jon. Nothing will. "Where're the others?" Pete asks.

"I asked if we could have some time." Jon doesn't actually know. They're not here, that's what's important.

Pete smiles, but it’s not lascivious, not the way it normally would be. It's reassured. "Oh."

Jon asks, "How was your flight?" because he wants to know and because he thinks maybe Pete needs reminding that Jon doesn't just care, that he's sort of completely in love with him.

"Kinda bumpy," Pete tells him. Jon can't figure out if he's being metaphorical or not.

He hooks his fingers just inside the waistline of Pete's jeans and pulls him slightly toward Jon. "Yeah?"

Pete nods. Jon sneaks a hand up, inside the cotton of Pete's t-shirt to rub at his stomach. "Sorry."

Pete shrugs. "Made it here."

"Lucky me."

"Because you want me here," Pete says, sounding like he needs to hear the words aloud.

Jon nods, "All the time. But I'll take what I can get."

"All the time like you have Ryan and Brendon."

"All the time like I would have you."

Pete buries his face in Jon's shoulder. "Are there any other things? Please, I know it's them, I know, but if there are, please tell—"

"There aren't. There aren't, Pete. That was it. I would have told you. You wouldn't have had to ask."

"Okay. Okay."

"Can I— Is there some way to make it better? Make you know in your head?"

"You asked them to go away for me?"

"So that we could have some time," Jon rephrases.

"Yeah," Pete says, "for us."

Jon kisses the top of his head. "For us."

Pete melts further into him, and Jon stays upright for the both of them. He nudges Pete to the couch with his hips, pours him out onto the cushions before kneeling in the space Pete's legs seem to make for him almost instinctively. Pete says, "Jon, um—"

"Shh, I know," Jon tells him, drawing down his jeans and briefs to find him largely uninterested in the proceedings.

"It's not—"

Jon surges up and kisses him quiet. "I _know_."

He settles back down where he can take Pete in his mouth and work at the problem slowly, with patience. He keeps his hands on Pete's thighs, his thumbs rubbing in slow circles. It takes a while, but Pete comes around, his hands falling to Jon's head, holding tight but not forcing. Pete says, "Jon," moans it. Jon ramps things up a little, sucks harder, brings one of his hands to the base of Pete's cock. Pete makes sweet noises on his tongue, barely pushing them past his lips. Jon just takes him all the way, patient and steady. He swallows before tucking Pete back into all the right places, putting him back together. He stands then, just enough to settle beside Pete on the couch.

Pete says, "You want—"

"Not right now," Jon tells him.

Pete ghosts a hand over Jon's crotch. "Oh."

"It just wasn't about that."

"Then what?"

"You."

"Shouldn't that—"

"Your comfort, your ease. It just...wasn't about sex. Means to an end."

"Always is with you." Pete doesn't sound displeased by the thought.

"Lot of the time," Jon agrees. Sex for sex's sake is fun, but not as much fun as the other stuff, particularly not with Pete.

"How is it possible that you're the total girl in your band?"

"Spencer stole everyone else's masculinity. He keeps it locked in a box which he never allows out of his pet alligator's sight. It's up to you to save my manhood, Pete Wentz." Jon feels that he manages to keep his tone surprisingly monotone and even keel. Impressively so.

"I wrestle alligators all the time," Pete says through a yawn. "Lemme at him."

"Why don't you take a nap first?"

"Nap sounds good."

"Yes, then we'll vanquish Spencer's masculinity-guarding alligator."

Pete closes his eyes. "Sounds like a plan."

 

 

*

When Pete wakes up, Jon is gone and Brendon is sitting pretzel style on the floor, staring at him. "Did Jon go to get the alligator?" Pete asks.

Brendon blinks. "I think he's whupping Spencer's ass at Zelda."

"Same difference," Pete tells him.

"Okay," Brendon agrees easily.

"Did he leave you here to watch me?"

Brendon shakes his head. "Ryan. But I bribed him to trade places."

"With what?"

"Promised I wouldn't play Guitar Hero for two days."

"I was expecting something a little more intimate."

"That's because you have a dirty mind."

Pete nods. He does. "Why'd you bribe him?"

"Because I thought that you might think that I knew, that I knew when I did that to him when I asked that of him and I didn't and I didn't want you thinking that I would hurt him like that, because I wouldn't." The words come quickly and it takes Pete a bit to process them all in their correct order. When he manages he says, "I know that, Brendon."

Brendon opens his mouth, shuts it, tries again only to say, "Oh."

"There's a reason he was in love with you, a reason Ryan can't look away, not even for a second, not really."

Eloquently, Brendon's response is, "Um."

"At least—" Pete bites his lip. "At least he got to have you once, to try. At least I know he's not sitting around wondering what that's like."

Brendon looks a little ill. Pete knows the feeling. There's a second, a pause, and then Brendon's launching himself at Pete, leaving Pete no choice but to open his arms, hold him close while he says, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Pete doesn't think he's really apologizing to him. That's okay, it makes it easier for Pete to say, "Me too."

Brendon just squeezes tighter and Pete says, "Yeah," and doesn't let go.

 

 

*

Jon keeps trying for the right picture. Keeps bringing the camera up, framing Pete in the prescribed lines, waiting for him to still enough for the photo to take. As of yet, he hasn't been able to depress the button.

Jon takes pictures of everything. Spencer's shoes, Ryan's guitars, Brendon's games, everything. If it can be captured on film, he makes sure it is. It isn't compulsive, he just likes the way things look different on paper, different with the light coming at them in other ways.

It isn't even like Jon's never seen pictures of Pete. There are hundreds of pictures of Pete, probably thousands. Pete takes pictures well, sad ones, happy ones, ones where he's not even really aware there's a camera. Pete is photogenic.

But there's always something just slightly less about Pete in his photos. It's not that Pete isn't a presence in them, he is, it's just that Pete when he's reaching out to Jon, Pete when his smile is stealing over his face, Pete when he's about to yell, Pete is so much, so very much, that there's no way for art to relay that. Not pictures, not paintings, not words, not even music. Pete just is and Jon doesn't want to fail at the things he tries with Pete, not even if he knows they are impossible.

For a long time Pete doesn't seem to notice, or if he does he doesn't say anything, but then there's the day when he says, "Afraid I'm going to break your camera?" smile soft and eyes diverted.

"Afraid I'm going to break you," Jon says, and realizes a moment later that it's the wrong phrasing, but he can explain himself, so he doesn't panic.

Pete says, "I'm flexible," with a little bit of a crack at the very end of the statement.

Jon kisses him, slow and long until Pete gives in and melts himself over Jon, lets Jon rub at the spots that always become sorest from the non-stop playing. Then Jon says, "Are you surprised I think you're better like this?"

"They don't have to be sexy pictures."

Jon raises an eyebrow. "Glad you think so."

"I mean, I could be walking, or laughing, or writing, or something."

"Can we pretend I just repeated myself?"

Pete thinks about it for a second before giggling. "Oh."

"It would be like a substitute."

"It would be something. For when it isn't like this. For when—"

Jon nods. He knows all about that when. And Pete has a point, maybe it _would_ be better than nothing. Except he doesn't know. Because he would know the difference, he would remember this.

"Think about it," Pete commands, and it is a command, his tone firm, his body lengthening so that his face is slightly above Jon's.

Jon, though, doesn't really mind being told what to do, not from time to time. And when he does, he's perfectly good at finding his own ways around it. "I will."

"I want to see how you see me."

Jon looks at Pete. "You wouldn't though, it wouldn't be _enough_."

"It would be part. That's something. That's...more than I have now."

Jon nods. He says, "Maybe," and means, "probably." He just needs to remember that perfection is, at times, overrated.

 

 

*

Jon starts easy. He clicks a picture of Pete when he's still asleep. Pete isn't moving much in his sleep—a good sign, a sign that he's actually getting some rest—and it's easy to capture at least some of him, if not all of him. Jon can get the way his face is a little calmer, the way his body unwinds a bit. He can't get the easy cadence of Pete's breath, or the way his fingers never entirely settle, but it's something.

He prints the pictures later and shows them to Pete who looks at them for a long time. Finally he says, "I'm not very pretty there."

Jon looks at the pictures and sees the small stretch of ankle poking out of Pete's pajama pants, the soft line of his lips. "Are we looking at the same pictures?"

"My hair's kinda," Pete makes wavy motions with his hands that Jon takes to mean "unkempt".

"Yes." Jon will admit this is so. "And your point?"

Pete hunches over the pictures and concentrates really hard. Finally, he shakes his head. "Maybe it's _not_ the same picture for the two of us." He sounds pretty dejected at the idea.

Jon rubs at his back. "No getting discouraged, grasshopper. We've only just started."

"Grasshopper?"

Jon smirks down at the picture.

"I'm _older_ than you," Pete says.

"But not wiser," Jon argues.

Pete opens his mouth and ends up saying, "Oh fuck. Whatever." Jon laughs.

For the second shot he tries something a little harder, tries capturing Pete while he's reading. He's still sitting in one place, but his eyes are following the lines of the book, his body leaning into the prose. Jon can get his posture and the way his feet lay flat on the floor. He can't get the way Pete sometimes whispers lines to himself, or the way he'll stop when he really likes something, stop and just smile at the page. He shows Pete the prints and Pete says, "I totally have to stop reading in front of other people. I look like some kind of headcase."

Jon turns the picture 360 degrees, just to make sure he isn't missing anything. All he can see is the spark—not quite as bright as it should be—of interest in Pete's eyes, the line of his stomach as he curls over the book. He says, "You look engaged."

"Tomato, tomahto."

Jon stifles his laugh. It's fine. He likes a challenge.

 

 

*

For the third shot, Jon gets daring. Pete is cuddling with Hemmy, the fingers of one hand scritching gently under Hemmy's ear. There is so much in the look Pete gives Hemmy—trust and concern and love. Jon knows none of that will come out right. He does get the sense of slight motion, the way Pete's fingers must be doing something right, because Hemmy is looking at him with equal devotion. He manages to catch the way Pete's upper body loosens slightly when he's got Hemmy in his arms. Other than that, the picture is only a pale imitation, but still, he's kind of amazed that Pete's reaction is, "Okay, seriously, are you _trying_ to take the world's worst pictures of me? Or am I just having some kind of a week?"

Jon looks at the picture again, just in case. Nope, still Pete unwound and caring and something like happy. Jon points to Pete's hand. "Look at your fingers."

Pete looks. Jon explains, "They're making Hemmy purr. Like your Clan bass. Like any bass."

"Look, I say this with love, but Hemmy's kinda easy."

"I'm not," Jon mutters, and tucks the picture away for his own purposes. He tries again when Pete is tuning said bass, taking his time, being methodical. Jon can see in the print the way Pete's arms seem to lengthen a bit, the concentration he enacts to listen to every part of the machine. It's missing the way Pete vibrates with his instrument, the way the bass almost forms itself into Pete.

Pete looks at the finished product and says, "I should probably be able to tune a bass without acting like it's a national emergency at this point, huh?"

Jon bites back a sigh and pulls Pete against him, so that Pete's back is flush against Jon's chest. Jon holds the picture out in front of them. "The camera missed the way each note lights you from the fucking inside. Cameras— They have lights and images and all this, but they don't have souls. That's just the subject. That can't be taken."

"I thought, in some cultures—"

"Maybe, but in mine? In mine you never actually see that in a picture. You see the way your hands know exactly where to go, you see the way the line of the bass fits your torso exactly, you see your almost-smile, which is one of my favorites, because it's the one you smile for yourself and nobody else. That's what I can show you. The rest— The rest will have to remain a mystery until I figure out a better plan for making you see."

"I don't see that stuff, Jon," Pete says softly.

"Keep looking," Jon orders. "Now that you know what to look for, keep looking."

Pete goes back to staring.

 

 

*

The fifth picture is sort of an accident, a series of accidents, really. Jon doesn't mean to press the automatic timer on his camera, but somehow he sets it to take a picture every minute and doesn't realize until roughly ten minutes later. By that time, there's enough incriminating evidence to bring down both their bands in a haze of homophobic glory. Possibly My Chem simply by association and rumors around The Summer of Like. Sometimes Jon wants to shake his head at Pete's sense of irony.

He's set the camera aside in the first place because Pete has been laughing, a full body laugh and Jon knows better than to even try and catch that, instead catches it the only way he can, with his hands, his mouth, letting Pete and his mirth pour over Jon, something he will be able to feel on his skin, later, when the actual touch of Pete is gone. He's got his hands on Pete's ass, his mouth nipping along the ridge of Pete's shoulder when he hears the click of the shutter. He laughs against the skin. "Oops."

He reaches out, turns it off, and continues with what he was doing. Later he flips through them before erasing, because he can't not look. He won't print these, won't transfer them onto his computer, won't take any risks, but he will look, just once. Pete hooks his chin over Jon's shoulder and says, "Oh. Huh."

In the pictures Pete is open and undone, confident and knowing. He is not warm and Jon cannot hear the beating of his heart, feel it beneath his fingertips. He is not trembling with want, happy with release. Jon doesn't like the pictures very much, if he is truthful. Pete says, "I look real," softly. "I look... I look in love."

Jon looks carefully at the pictures, and yeah, he supposes that's true, but this permutation of it is no more real—perhaps, less, honestly—than the ones he sees when he asks Pete what he wants to do for dinner, or for his opinion on a book, or to help him figure out a chord that's evading him. Jon kisses him. "I have to delete them, sweetheart."

"I know. I— Just not yet, okay?"

Jon puts the camera in Pete's hands, trusts him to do what needs to be done.

 

 

*

Jon doesn't see it coming. A lot of time with Pete there are warning signs, but this time it comes out of nowhere and even Patrick admits, "Um, that one was sort of a blind-sider."

Andy puts his hands on Jon's shoulders and squeezes. His voice is even softer than normal when he says, "Thanks for coming."

Jon rises into the touch a bit. "How're you guys?"

Andy's hands move a little, like a massage, but not quite. Joe says, "A little perplexed."

Jon knows the feeling. "Okay." He claps a hand over Andy's, squeezes for a second, and then slips out of the grip. "He's in his room?"

Patrick says, "It's possible he locked it," and tosses Jon a key. Jon catches it and then tosses it back. "He'll let me in." He makes his way to Pete's room and says, "Hey. I flew across the continental United States to cheer your band up, wanna walk across the room to let me in?"

Pete says, "My band's out there. They deserve some cheering up."

"Yeah, that's what I told them, but they seem to think you're a necessary part of that." Jon waits for a long time, but finally there's shuffling and the door opens a crack. Pete's mostly bruises and shadows. Jon asks, "What's the other guy look like?"

Pete runs for the bathroom. Jon winces, but lets himself in the room and closes the door behind him. He follows Pete, sinking to his knees and rubbing at Pete's back. There's nothing in Pete's stomach, and so the heaving is violent, the sounds tearing. Jon gets up and grabs a glass by the sink, rinses it out, fills it with lukewarm water. He forces Pete to drink, easing some of the process, but it goes on for a while. When it's finished, Pete crumples to the floor.

"Okay sweetheart," Jon says, combing at Pete's hair with his fingers.

"Please don't," Pete says, his voice cracking and strained.

"Don't what?"

"Call me that."

"Give me a good reason not to."

"Not sweet."

"I suppose we'll have to agree to disagree."

Pete shudders under Jon's fingers, shudders and then dissolves into full out shakes, like he's cold, freezing, only, so far as Jon can tell, his temperature hasn't dropped one bit. "Oh fuck, Jon, oh fuck—"

Jon pulls him up, presses Pete to his chest, rubs at his arms, his back. "Gonna fix it, Pete, no problem."

"Crazy, I went fucking crazy—"

"I know, I know, it's okay."

"No, no, fucked— Jon, I— Oh Jesus, the guys, they, I—"

"Breathe, sweetheart, breathe for me, please."

But Pete's too far gone for that, and no matter what Jon tries, he just keeps talking, talking until even the breath for that is gone. Jon feels him pass out, feels him go eerily still. He crushes Pete to his chest and closes his eyes for a moment. He mutters, "Pull it together, Walker," and sits there, keeping Pete safe while he's out, figuring out how the hell to deliver on his promise of a fix.

 

 

*

When Pete wakes up, Jon has managed to get him to the bed, under the covers. Jon's wrapped himself around Pete as tight as he'll go. Pete says, "I'm dizzy."

"Yeah," Jon says. "I'm not sure I can be surprised by that."

"Jon." Pete closes his eyes, but the world still spins. He hurts everywhere that the other guy's fists fell, but nowhere so much as his stomach, which aches from all the voiding, from the visions of the guy still on the ground beneath him even as Andy finally reached him, finally pulled him the fuck off.

The guy is suing. Pete will talk to the lawyers about settling later. For now there is Jon, Jon to talk to. Jon who is rubbing at his back, his arms, Jon who isn't trying to rush him at all. He says, "Jon," again and, "he started— At first it was just the normal shit. Smack about us, about Panic and I was— I had the beer to fucking calm down, to stay calm. But then he— He said—" Pete can remember every derogatory, untrue thing the man said about Jon. He can't say it back to him. "He said things about you. About— He made it— I just, you're not like that, not with them, not with anybody, you're not, and I— The beer was a bad idea. Everything, everything was a fucking bad idea, and I knew, _I_ knew they weren't true, those things, and you knew and you knew I knew, so there was no reason, but I just— _Fuck._ Fuckfuckfuck."

"You were defending my honor?" Jon doesn't sound as though he's mocking the idea.

"He's suing and I'm sure he's gonna tell everyone that I've got a crush on you and then we'll need to not really be around each other as much for the guys, you know, for the band, and oh, fuck, I fuck everything up, _everything_."

"You don't," Jon says softly. "You haven't fucked this up."

"Jon, I—"

"Your band wouldn't give a shit if we came out publicly and you damn well know it, so stop taking that on. Who you love doesn't hurt them, they would tell you that if you ever bothered to fucking ask. And like Joe has a leg to stand on, kinky fucker."

Pete can't help it, he laughs a bit. It's a wavery, watery laugh, but it's a laugh.

"As far as the guy, if he's suing, then the settlement can include a non-disclosure if you want it to, and you both know it. So he'll probably stay quiet long enough to bargain for that."

"Probably," Pete admits.

"So the big problem, really, is getting you to stop hating yourself over this."

Pete sighs. Jon is the biggest optimist he's ever met, and Pete knows people who validly believe they can save lives with their music. He's not naming any names. He says, "Jon."

"Pete."

"I don't— I don't want to ask that of you."

"Somebody else?" Jon's voice sounds distant.

"No! No. I just. You hate it."

"But you need it."

"I thought— For a while, I thought maybe I wouldn't again. When I'm with you, it can be so easy, in certain ways. But it just, it creeps back and I ignore it, ignore it until...until this."

Jon's, "You needed to ask before now?" is quiet.

"Long before."

"Should I have—"

"You can't read my mind." Pete might wish Jon could, but he knows, he knows it doesn't work like that.

"There might have been signs."

Pete shakes his head. "Even I can tell that isn't fair."

"But if you don't ask—"

"I have to be better," Pete tells him. "I have to ask. And you have— Please. Please be willing."

Jon asks, "Can we do this now? Am I allowed to get it over with?"

"Yes, please. _Please_."

 

 

*

Jon goes into the bathroom, hoping Pete keeps a brush, rather than just combs. Jon thinks he needs something more than his hand, but he's looked at Pete's belts and not a one of them are suitable so far as Jon's concerned. Jon wonders if Pete buys them with the thought that he might need them for that some day. They're all heavy, too heavy. He really doesn't want to have to ask Patrick again, but if it’s needful, he will. He finds a brush in the third drawer he checks, a nice flat plastic back with a fairly large surface area. It will serve. Jon grabs the handle tightly, and takes himself back into the room.

Pete is naked when Jon steps out of the bathroom. Jon smiles at him, a soft smile. Pete doesn't quite smile back, but Jon can tell he's paying attention. Jon asks, "Will it hurt too much to lay on my lap?" There are bruises on Pete's stomach, his hips.

"Want— I want to."

"Okay. Careful, though." Jon sits at the edge of the bed and gives Pete time to get himself settled. He strokes over the line of Pete's back, his ass. He says, "Before I do this, there's some stuff I want you to hear. Can you listen?"

Pete nods slightly. Jon feels it more than sees it. "This is punishment. But not because you decided to fight or you wanted to get him to stop talking or any of that. Because you hurt yourself. You hurt yourself physically and you hurt yourself in your mind when you hurt him and I just— That is a punishable offense, Pete. So long as you feel you need punishment, that's something that absolutely falls under the rubric of things that upset me. But you have to choose the punishment the way you chose to fight, okay?"

Jon waits for Pete to say, "Okay."

"Okay," Jon says, and brings the hairbrush down hard, as hard as he can. Pete gasps. Jon lightens up then, says, "Tell me, Pete, tell me why we're doing this."

"Because I asked. I needed."

"So smart," Jon says, and lays in. Pete writhes and sobs and buries his hands in the comforter and says, "Sorry sorry sorry," but Jon waits, waits until he screams. Then he's done, throwing the brush to the side, standing Pete up and holding him, holding him through the last of what he has the energy to sob out. When he quiets, Jon asks, "Did that— Better, sweetheart?"

Pete says, "Better. Better."

"Gonna let me spoil you, now?"

"Rotten," Pete agrees.

 

 

*

Jon pulls Pete into the bathroom and leaves him with his hands on the sink counter, holding himself up. He says, "Give me a couple of minutes, okay?"

Pete says, "Take your time." He sounds calm, now that the crying is done. Jon still doesn't plan on following that suggestion. He walks quickly to the living room, where Joe looks to be even more high than he usually is, Andy's eyes are worried and Patrick throws him a sheepish smile. Jon smiles back, just for good measure. It's a tight, uneasy smile, but he means it. "Could I, um—"

"What do you need?" Patrick cuts him off.

"If one of you could change the sheets and someone else could order some food or make it, or whatever, and also, if someone could find Hemmy, all of those things would be—"

"Hemmy's in the backyard," Joe tells him, as gravely as though he is explaining cold fusion.

Andy rolls his eyes. "I think we can handle all that. Anything else?"

Jon suspects he has been forgiven, but he doesn't want to push his luck. "No, that's— Thanks." He makes his way quickly back to Pete, grabbing some clean sweats for both of them on his way to the bathroom and locking the door behind him once he's there. He inserts himself under Pete's arms, so that Pete's weight is resting on him.

Pete asks, "They give you a hard time?"

"No, I think Patrick interceded for me."

"Patrick's awesome," Pete says.

"Yup," Jon agrees. He maneuvers Pete over to the shower and runs the water lukewarm.

It wakes Pete up a bit and he says, "Cold."

Jon turns him so that his back is directly under the stream. Pete says, "Oh." Jon kisses him. When Pete starts to shiver, Jon warms the water up and washes both of them quickly. Then he gets them out and dries them off. He hands the sweats to Pete, who slips into them, wrapping his arms gently around himself. Jon rummages in the medicine cabinet until he finds some aspirin. He unlocks the door to the bathroom and peeks out. The sheets have been changed and one of the windows is open, letting in a breeze. There's nobody in the room. He turns to Pete, "Go lay down, okay? However you're comfortable."

He runs to the kitchen again for water. Andy says, "Food's on its way. We got him macaroni and cheese."

"Thanks," Jon says, and means it. "We're not going to be having sex or anything, so—"

Andy smirks. "Go away."

Jon goes. He makes Pete take the aspirin before he'll cuddle with him. He tells him about the food and Pete says, "Not really hungry."

Since Pete was dry heaving when he arrived, Jon tells him, "Yeah, I don't really care," but lets Pete fall asleep while they wait all the same.

 

 

*

There's a knock on the door and Jon calls, "Come in." Pete wakes at the sound, but he doesn't do much more than shift slightly in Jon's arms.

"I brought you Hemmy," Joe says, and walks in ahead of Andy, who comes bearing food, and Patrick, who has bed-trays. Jon makes a note to tell Patrick he's brilliant later. Jon feels it is also of import that Joe's hair is wet and Hemmy looks and smells freshly washed. Pete rearranges himself into a sitting position, wincing when his weight settles. Jon kisses his temple. The others can see, he doesn't care. This is between Pete and himself, unless Pete wants it to be something else, and if he does, then that's what he'll get.

Pete flushes a little. He reaches out to Patrick who hands him one of the trays so that Pete can set it up. Andy puts the food down in front of him. Joe keeps Hemmy, which Jon thinks is for the best at the moment. Hemmy is a big fan of human food. All three of them sit on the bed, their eyes on Pete. Pete looks down at the food and says, "Okay, okay."

He takes a couple of slow bites, but then he must realize he's hungry, because he sets in in earnest. When he begins slowing down again he says, "I'm sorry there's gonna be bad PR again," but he sounds just sorry, not like he wants to tear himself apart by way of repentance.

"Apology accepted," Joe tells him, mostly concentrating on keeping Hemmy—who is very curious about the smells coming at him—where he is.

"You blow at being a pacifist," Patrick informs him.

"But your right hook is coming along," Andy says, sounding suspiciously proud. Patrick narrows his eyes at him. Andy pretends not to notice. Jon knows the look. He pretends not to notice that Brendon is about to pounce all the time.

Pete laughs a little. "Bad influence."

"Yeah, well, evidently I have Jon to beat you back into submission, so that's okay." Andy says it lightly, but his eyes are on Pete, waiting.

Pete meets Andy's gaze. His own eyes are neither as steady nor as level, but Jon can see the way they stay where they need to be, if nothing else. He says, "He doesn't do a fucking thing I don't ask for."

After a second, Andy nods his head. "Okay."

Pete blinks. "You—"

"I don't eat honey because I worry about the oppression of the bee race at large. I don't think I've got a lot of call to be acting like other people are weird, okay?"

"Really? That's what the honey thing is about?" Joe asks. They ignore him.

"Weird is one thing—" Pete starts.

"Pete, Jesus. You're Pete. I've noticed before, I'm likely to notice again at some point. But that's all. You're just you. And he likes that, he takes care of that, so I don't give a shit what other people might think."

"Not even if it—"

Andy waves a hand. "I'd be the first member of this band to stand out there and shout queer rights, and I think we all know it."

Patrick says, "We do, but we try not to acknowledge the sad facts of life when at all possible to ignore them."

"Speak for yourself," Andy tells him.

"Well, and for us," Joe adds. He asks Pete, "You gonna eat all of that?"

Pete looks down. "Um, probably?"

"Fine," Joe says, and complains some to Hemmy, who clearly has no sympathy.

 

 

*

**NOVEMBER 2008**

Jon likes watching Pete eat desserts. He never seems to really pay attention to what he's doing, but at the same time, it's incredibly rare that anything ever misses his mouth, like he knows somewhere in his subconscious that he wants _every single last bit._ Jon wonders—and okay, maybe it's a little wistful, but mostly he's just curious—if Pete ever thinks about him like that.

There are cupcakes at the party because Bob and Spencer both have a fondness for bite size food, or failing that, food that requires fingers only. The cupcakes are actually from Cupcakes, since when Pete heard that Bob and Spencer were having a party he insisted on getting the cupcakes from there, knowing about this particular quirk of theirs and having something of a fetish for Cupcakes himself. As such, there's every flavor of cupcake known to mankind and a few that Jon really just wouldn't have guessed at, like sparkling pear and tiramisu. Pete is currently extolling the virtues of the Dr. Pepper to Jon's mom. Pete was a little horrified to learn that she'd never gone to Cupcakes, what with living in Chicago and all. He's saying, "I know it sounds weird, I actually ate it on a dare from Patrick the first time, but seriously, it's—" He thinks for a second and then just gives up on being creative, offering hopefully, "I'll share one with you."

Jon can tell his mother has her doubts, but doesn't want to hurt this boy that Jon brought home, who is still clearly somewhat fidgety. Jon thinks of the wonder bathtub and how he could help Pete out with that. Then he makes himself go over and grab a red velvet cupcake. He watches Pete split the cupcake carefully and hand Jon's mother the larger half. Jon surreptitiously hands her a napkin while Pete is concentrating on taking his first bite. Jon pretends, for a second, that his mother isn't standing right there so that he can watch to his heart's content.

Luckily, his mother has evidently been distracted by the fact that, "Okay, that's really sort of sinfully good, Pete Wentz. If I become addicted to this place and gain one million pounds, I'm outing you as a cupcake pimp to every available media outlet in this region."

Pete grins. "Better than some of the things I've been called."

"Oh, shut up and tell me which one to try next," she says before taking a second bite. Pete solemnly takes to the task of hunting her down a carrot cake.

Once he's accomplished this, Jon says, "Mom, we promised Spence and Bob we'd actually look around. Mind if I steal him?"

"Very smooth, Jon," she tells him. Jon grins unrepentantly. He got all his moves from his dad, whom she married, so he's not going to feel bad. He hooks his finger right under the waistline of Pete's jeans and pulls him along.

Pete comes easily enough, even if he says, "That was seriously kind of racy, Jon Walker."

Jon laughs. Pete's one to talk, but Jon knows that Pete has all these rules about when what is okay and when those things aren't. Jon also knows Pete breaks the rules sometimes, accidentally or otherwise. Jon says, "Yeah, well, if you didn't want me to take you away and ravish you, you shouldn't have been eating cupcakes."

"Oh sure, blame the victim," Pete says, but when they find themselves—or rather, when Jon very cleverly locates them—in the utility room, Pete clearly has no complaints about Jon pressing him up to the washing machine and tasting the famous Dr. Pepper cupcakes for himself. Jon picks Pete up by his waist and hoists him onto the washer. Pete helps a little bit, but mostly he just leans down to keep kissing Jon.

Jon pulls back. "That really is a good cupcake."

Pete grins. "I bring the boys to the yard."

"Mm," Jon says, unbuttoning Pete's jeans with a sort of lazy care. He pulls Pete out of his boxers, runs his hands up under Pete's shirt and leans over to suck. He doesn't care that they're in Bob and Spencer's house, that his parents are out there, that _Spencer's_ parents are out there, Jon likes taking his time—what he gets of it—with Pete.

Pete whispers, "Naughty," and hooks his hands in Jon's hair, which Jon has gone to keeping just long enough for such an action. Jon doesn't have a problem with being described that way, particularly not the way Pete says it, half surprise, mostly awe. Sometimes Jon thinks that he'll never quite get over Pete being there with him, Pete's beauty, the things Pete asks for, the way Pete wants him, but that's okay, because Pete seems to be having a hard time getting over it as well.

Jon plays with him, draws it out until Pete's biting at the palm of his hand so as not to disturb the party. Jon pulls off to say, "Ask me for it," which is different than , "beg me for it," and Pete knows it because he says, "I want to come, Jon, I want, oh," and Jon lets him have what he wants. He swallows and carefully tucks Pete away, actually trying not to take advantage of the way Pete is always completely wrecked at this point.

Pete pulls at Jon ineffectually for a kiss, but Jon's willing to go easily. Pete asks, "You want something now, or later?"

"Make me wait," Jon says, because he knows exactly what he wants, and no matter how much Pete might want to give it to him, it's not going to happen now. "When we have our own dryer. And it's on."

"Whenever," Pete tells him, kissing him again. "Wherever."


	6. Eight Times

Gerard recognizes him, and that's not weird, but a little bit, because he was pretty sure the only boyband member he would recognize on sight was Timberlake and only then because of the whole "wardrobe malfunction" thing and whoa did that kid ever not pay his publicist enough. But Gerard does, the letters of his name sliding into place as he watches JC's eyes crinkle in laughter, watches him fold over with it—a surprising lack of grace in a man who made a good chunk of his career out of dancing. Still, Gerard thinks he can see where it might come from. Gerard knows he's nowhere near as enthralling when he doesn't have a microphone in his hands.

He doesn't plan on catching JC's eye. Not really. Gerard is Gerard Way of My Chemical Romance, and he could have a nice wave of solid, darkly beautiful goth girls, a whole ocean of waify, droopy-eyed college boys, but JC Chasez is neither of those things. And maybe he hasn't had a single in years, maybe his boys left him—the thought makes Gerard cringe, gulp at his water for the calming, cooling sensation—but he's still, well. He's still the kind of guy who graces magazine covers, cutting at the cool sheen of them with his perfect cheekbones. So, no, Gerard's got no plans in that direction.

Evidently, JC has them in his, though, because at some point he sidles up, and Gerard thinks, _stop looking at his hips_ , but it's hard with his faded blue jeans hanging from them, one side of his sweater somehow having hitched up to where there's a small slip of skin peeking out.

JC says, "Hey man, you're Gerard Way, yeah?"

Gerard holds out his hand, "JC Chasez, right?"

JC grins like nobody ever knows who he is. His hand is warm and dry and large. "I've had 'Early Sunsets' on repeat."

Gerard blinks. "Oh?" Don't get him wrong, he knows they have a large audience, but he wouldn't have called that. Even if he'd guessed that JC would have been into the rock edge of the scene, he would have pegged him for an "I'm Not Okay," kind of guy.

JC nods. "Yeah. You write _lyrics_. That's my downfall. I mean, in my head it sounds good, like music, even, but then when it is music..."

Gerard nods. "It's just words."

JC grin broadens, settles into his face, maybe even deeper. "You enjoying yourself?"

Gerard looks around. Bob's having some kind of Serious Drummer Conversation with Samantha Malone, which they will all tattle on him to Spencer about later, as if Bob could get hard with women if he tried. Ray's nowhere to be found, which means he's probably already getting a blowjob in the nearest bathroom. Frank and Mikey have long gone back to the hotel. "It's a nice party," he says carefully.

"I know a tea house," JC says. "I mean, you can get other stuff there, if you're not into that."

"Tea's good," Gerard says.

"Right," JC nods, "It is."

Gerard says, "You bring a car?" because he's pretty sure his is back at the hotel, along with his brother and his all-but-in-law ex.

JC pulls keys from who only knows where—certainly not those pants, there's nowhere for them to have _been_ —and says, "Let's blow this popsicle stand."

Gerard hasn't heard that said since he was fourteen. He can't stop himself from putting a hand on JC's shoulder, a careful, manly pat, just to make sure it doesn't pass straight through. He used to undergo really, really realistic delirious visions, back when he was on drugs. He hasn't had them since, but they're not something he wants to find happening while fully sober. His hand lands on poly-wool blend, though, the peak of JC's shoulder bone burrowing up into his palm. JC's breath hitches just slightly and the bone presses up into his hand, just a bit higher, real as anything else is.

"Lead the way," Gerard says.

 

 

*

The thing is, JC knows better than to go home with boys who look at him like maybe he's a little too expensive to match with the outfit they're wearing, but when Gerard Way smiles, every ounce of common sense he's ever fucking accumulated goes out the window. It's deeply annoying, not to mention inconvenient.

Gerard drinks hot bubble tea with a straw and talks in sometimes incomprehensible metaphors and JC knows he's well and truly fucked even before he takes Gerard back to his place and has him complete the actual act. Gerard looks surprised the entire time, and in the morning he's gone before breakfast. JC tells himself that's good decision-making on Gerard's part. He would believe it if he thought there was any sort of decision involved in the situation. Gerard has gone back to his band, that is all.

JC knows the rumors about Gerard, about Frank Iero and their performances that maybe aren't such performances. It is maybe not just his band that Gerard has returned to, but JC doesn't think so. Gerard doesn't strike him as the cheating type.

JC plans to stay the hell away from him. Gerard Way is trouble, trouble with a capital T. JC's plans almost always go to shit, and he is generally to blame. It's an unfortunate fact of his life, but one he has largely become accustomed to. Hence, it's hard to be all that surprised when he goes back to Gerard's hotel room with him after some random industry shindig. Gerard is clearly more surprised than JC.

Gerard says, before leaving, "I've gotta tell my guys," and JC nods, because he gets that. He watches, though, watches as Gerard whispers in Iero's ear, as both Iero's and Gerard's brother's eyes track the crowd for him. Mikey smiles. Iero does too, but it's a beat later and JC thinks, _ah,_ and _fuck_. Mikey says something to Iero, pulls his gaze away and JC thinks, _double fuck_ because it's one thing to be in fruitless competition with an ex-lover, but an ex-lover who might very well be with his once lover's younger brother?

JC is so royally screwed.

The smart thing to do is come up with some excuse, some music emergency. There really aren't music emergencies. And JC isn't in the mood to lie. He's in the mood to be touched by Gerard Way. Now just to get himself _out_ of that mood.

 

 

*

By the third time, JC has pretty much given up kidding himself that he's not going to be a huge idiot about this situation. He wouldn't even go to the damn MTV event except that he knows there's a solid chance Gerard will. JC might be oblivious a lot of the time, but he knows how to read a road sign when it's posted right in front of his eyes.

To add insult to injury, they go to fucking Starbucks afterward and JC doesn't even raise any objection, just orders a chai latte, all milk, and gets bitchy about VJs with Gerard. Gerard hides surprisingly sharp edges with all of his emo, which seems like it should be paradoxical, but it isn't.

When they get back to the hotel, Gerard kisses him. It tastes like Starbuck's scorched-earth coffee and JC considers trying their blends again, it's so fucking _good_. Since he isn't kidding himself that he's not going to get his heart broken anymore, he writes three-fourths of the song that he's been trying to forget while he's on the plane back to LA. He also texts Gerard once he lands, a simple, "Blue skies, smiling at me."

Gerard responds, "Not here."

"Aw. Weather getting you down?"

"No. Like sleeping on bus while raining."

JC wonders if Gerard's ellipsed style of texting is closer or further away from the way his thoughts actually work. "You think in pictures or words?"

"Combination, you?"

"Words. Chords, a lot."

"That too."

Gerard is probably too smart for his own good. He's definitely too smart for JC. "Home now. Later."

Hours afterward, when he has unpacked and grocery shopped and gone through all the minutiae of returning home, he finds Gerard's response. "How much later?"

 

 

*

It's Mikey who sees the email over his shoulder. If it had been Frank, he could have explained it, hushed it up, but it is Mikey, who is his younger brother and therefore, by definition, bound and required to be the largest pain in his ass possible. Were he feeling fair to Mikey, Gerard could most likely admit that Mikey's, "You exchanged email addresses?" is far more curious with a touch of the concerned than mocking, but he is not feeling fair to Mikey.

"With who?" Ray asks, eyes never once coming away from the videogame death match he has going on with Frank. This prompts Bob to come and look over his shoulder and from there, it's all over.

Bob asks, "You sure that's a good idea, man?"

"Who?" Ray repeats, and Gerard can see the way his shoulders have come off the couch now. He's itching to come look for himself. Gerard tabs out of the screen, for all the good it will do him now. Frank, ostensibly, is still concerned wholly with whupping Ray's ass.

Mikey is surprisingly quiet, given the obvious chance to stir things up and Gerard glances at him. Mikey tilts his head and says, "You just didn't say."

"It's not really your business," Gerard says, even though that's a lie. He and JC haven't seen each outside of events, not yet, but the PR risks of those incidental meetups alone make it the band's business. Then there's the fact that Mikey is more than the band, which is a hard thing to say but there it is, he is, and yeah, maybe Gerard should have said, "We email. All the time. Like, I've begun having an addiction to my Sidekick, which before mostly just annoyed me."

Frank calls him on the lie by laughing, but he still doesn't look over from the game. Gerard thinks he's leaving Mikey to do as he will, since Mikey will allow Frank to take the lead if he so much as hints that he wants it. Mikey frowns a bit. "He's not really your type, not usually."

Gerard doesn't say, "JC is everybody's type, even the ones that won't admit it," or, "He's the type that just never looked at me before." If it were just him and Mikey, maybe. Nor does he say, "They're just emails," because they're not and he's not really interested in lying to the band, except possibly by omission. Even then, he hates doing it.

He says, "He thinks marshmallows are creepy, too. Particularly the Easter colored ones." Once he's said it aloud, that sounds like a sort of lame reason to be thinking about dating someone as risky as JC.

But Mikey just blinks. "Wow. What was the likelihood? I mean, Peeps, sure, everyone thinks Peeps are creepy—"

"I don't," Frank and Ray both say.

"No, but you should," Bob tells them gently. Mikey nods in approbation. Gerard can't be part of this conversation. Peeps are the devil.

"Anyway, my point was—"

Before Mikey can get to his point, because that seems sort of final, Gerard rushes to get in, "He's also scared of needles. So we would know to avoid a lot of the same shit. And he—"

Mikey's expression is expectant.

"He gets that he'll never be you guys. And I get that I'll never be his. Guys."

Mikey nods slowly at that. "Yeah, okay. Well, you should, um, say hi. Next time you email."

"I should?"

Mikey shrugs. "If you wanted."

Frank makes a noise that Gerard knows is agreement, even if it mostly just sounds like he wants to strangle Ray with his own hair. There are certain things that Gerard wants far, far too much to ask for. He keys up the Sidekick. There are salutations to relay.

 

 

*

The fourth time JC is ready to just give over, just smile back when Gerard smiles at him, just pretend for the short while Gerard's evidently going to grant him that Gerard could be his. He is already Gerard's.

He tells Joey after the fourth time because Joey won't judge, nor will he tattle. Joey asks, "You sure he's not—"

"He's all about Iero," JC says, but cuts it off at that, because thinking about it is ruining the buzz he's had for three days running off the feel of having Gerard's tongue on his cock, watching Gerard look up at him, all fucking eyes.

Joey says, "Well. Okay. Just—"

"Yeah," JC says. "I'm happy right now."

He holds onto the happy for all he's worth when Gerard actually comes up to him the fifth time. It's a hesitant approach, but JC doesn't think that has to do with the people between them, he thinks that has to do with the fact that Gerard hasn't figured out JC's a sure thing. For a really, really smart guy, Gerard misses the boat so hard sometimes JC has to wonder if his swimming skills are pretty awesome.

He takes JC back to his hotel and undresses him real slow and when he's tucked tight against JC's back, fucking him hard and sweet, he says, "Come for me, pretty," and JC comes more from the endearment than the command. Gerard likes pretty things. JC knows. He's seen Frank. It's a start.

He tells Chris after the fifth time, because Chris is good at getting what he wants, at formulating plans. Chris says, "He calls you pretty?"

"Well, just that once."

Chris is silent for a bit. "You're sure he makes you happy?"

"Is that one of those things I've ever been wrong about?"

They could both wish he was at times, but JC has always known what is good for him, even when he would prefer it be any other way. There's a reason JC hasn't called Lance in two months. Lance knows him too fucking well for JC to even lie by omission.

"You gotta stop holding back, Jace."

"I'm not—"

"You always do. If it's not us, you always do. And he can't see you if you're only giving him the parts that reflect in the mirror."

"If I do that—"

"I know. But you say you know this is what you want. And you called me, so I don't think you're lying."

JC sighs. The problem with Chris is that when he's right, he's always right. "Fuck."

"Keep me on speed-dial."

Like JC doesn't already.

 

 

*

Gerard knows JC's going to be at the Charleston show; he comped him the tickets. He doesn't know that he's bringing Joey Fatone. He wonders if JC paid for the second ticket, or if he knows people at the record company. It's something JC would do, pluck down the forty dollars as a bizarre grand gesture, despite the fact that forty dollars is pocket change to both of them. It's the thought, Gerard knows.  
  
For the moment, however, there are more immediate concerns than how JC garnered the ticket. Like the fact that Joey Fatone is shaking his hand and saying, "Hey, good set," and Gerard is looking at JC, feeling a bit betrayed because nobody told him they were at the part where they started meeting each other's families. Gerard is actually pretty sure they're still in the series-of-unconnected sexual encounters part, with emails on the side.

JC presses a kiss to his cheek, breezy and familiar, so casual that even if there are cameras, there won't be pictures, because Gerard has already done worse on stage for everyone to see. "Hey, he wanted to come. He likes the album."

Feeling a bit vindictive—he'll regret it later, he knows, whether because his guys give him hell for it or because JC decides it's too much, one way or another, he will want to go back and redo this whole evening—he says, "You guys should meet the others."

Joey smiles a wide, bright, easy-going smile. "I gotta talk to your drummer. He's got some serious rhythm."

"Yeah, Bob's the best." He is, and not just for his rhythm, but Gerard still feels stupid stating the obviously obvious. Gerard introduces them around and for a moment there's this horrid pause of expectation and then Frank clasps JC's hand and smiles that utterly real smile and says, "Nice that you could finally catch up with us."

JC nods. "That part I don't miss."

Mikey smiles, a little, as much as he ever does around strangers. It's tacit approval, and Gerard understands. Bob and Ray, for their part, take Joey off his hands, so that he can have them full of JC, who doesn't quibble about climbing on a bus, about groping in the dark of the bunks. Instead, when Gerard is in him and he is nothing but long lines of cream and processed sugar—the kind Gerard usually effaces, but cannot seem to resist in this instance—JC says, "Joey likes you."

Gerard bites his lip to try and concentrate but he can't, not until later, not until they're lying in a puddle of themselves, wet and undone. Only then can he say, "He seems like the kind of guy who likes everyone."

"Everyone but my boyfriends," JC tells him seriously.

Gerard thinks about Ray, who gets along with just about anything that breathes until it steps foot into the space reserved for the band and says, "Yeah, okay."

It's another few seconds before he has the presence of mind to ask, "Boyfriend?"

"I'd kinda like that, but I'll get it if you're— I mean, this is like, the height, the best part, and I could see not really being interested in someone who's only maybe gonna have a next album and it's a risk and I'm sure the others aren't terribly—"

Gerard cuts him off with a kiss and when he pulls back he has to turn away, because he can feel a particularly stupid grin settling into his cheeks. JC takes his chin, doesn't allow him the escape. JC's grin is maybe even sillier. "Yes?"

Gerard buries his face in JC's chest.

 

 

*

The seventh time it's a little easier to remember who he is, to let Gerard see that person, even if Gerard isn't looking. It always gets easier with practice. Sometimes when JC first shows up at his parents' place they have to spend a day drawing him out, but after that he can usually be there, no problem.

Gerard finds JC this time, which is helpful. He was just on his way over, too, but it's nice being the one approached. Gerard doesn't have any of his bandmates with him and JC asks, "Everybody know where you are?"

"Evidently they trust you with me," Gerard says dryly. JC will have to find a way to thank them later. Trust is no small thing. And Gerard is their leader.

They stop at a McDonald's drive-through because Gerard wants coffee and it's the closest thing they find. JC gets a McFlurry and promises to brush his teeth before he kisses Gerard. Gerard laughs. JC does too. He's not even amused at himself, just happy to be there, and laughter is contagious for JC.

"How's the recording going?" Gerard asks. They email all the time, text even more. Gerard knows how the recording is going, but JC thinks it's a nice thing to ask. It shows the way he pays attention, even if it's not the same way JC does.

"I'm a little bit stuck, but I've got people helping me to get unstuck."

"Where's the sticking happening?"

"There's a bridge problem on one of the songs."

"Bridge problem?"

"Doesn't fit right. Actually doesn't get me from one end to the other."

"Huh."

JC smiles. "It happens. Doesn't it happen with you?"

"Not normally that way."

"Course not," JC says. "Things like that are for mere mortal musicians."

Gerard parks the car and sips at the last of his coffee. "There are other problems, trust me."

"I do," JC says, and means it in a larger sense. Even if Gerard hurts him—and he probably will—he won't mean to.

Gerard looks over at him. The look goes on long enough that JC asks, "Something on your mind?"

"This is the seventh time we've done this."

JC knows. He's surprised Gerard does.

"That's longer than most of my relationships have lasted."

Most of JC's too, actually. And he's had quite a few. "Not Iero."

"No, not Frank," Gerard says softly.

JC holds his breath.

"I didn't expect this."

_You're telling me._

"I didn't expect you."

That's something different, JC knows, he's just not sure how it's different.

"I shouldn't take you inside."

No, Gerard really, really shouldn't. JC couldn't possibly care less. "Please do."

 

 

*

Gerard can't stop talking when they catch up next. The critical response to the album has been positive in a way that JC had hoped for but not really expected and Gerard clearly hadn't been able to even hope for. Gerard is an odd contradiction of hope for others and desire for hope for himself. It makes JC want to kiss him. Then again, everything makes JC want to kiss him. Gerard is quoting the New York Times Review to him. JC recognizes the quote; he's read the review. He's read every review he could find for it. He might have even established a super anonymous blog to respond to some of the stuff being posted online, but he's not talking about that, not even with Joey. Not even with Lance, whom he finally told, mostly because Joey said, "C, he thinks you're mad at him."

JC called him and asked, "What would I be mad about?"

Lance said, "Are you seriously going to act like your reactions are always rational?"

So JC told him and Lance said, "Tell me he at least knows what he's got," and JC lied through his teeth, "Oh yeah." He should feel guilty about it, but just now, watching the way Gerard is all but twirling where he stands, watching his somehow perfectly imperfect teeth flash, watching him _live_ this moment so hard, JC can't. Gerard flings himself forward, kisses JC. JC has missed what the catalyst was but it doesn't matter, it never does with Gerard's mouth on his. Gerard pulls back enough to grin at JC, to say, "You can tell me 'I told you so.'"

"Sometimes I like being right," JC admits. It's nice, because most of the time he hates it.

"You believed," Gerard says, still smiling at JC like he's the only thing Gerard can see and he has to stop that because it makes it hard for JC to think.

"I did. I do."

"You believed," Gerard repeats more softly. "And you stayed right where you were."

"Gee?"

"I just— I just realized."

"I don't—"

"We've been doing this, doing this and doing this, and eight times now and I never noticed how you were always there when I looked."

JC's insides clench. It's not that he hasn't wanted to be noticed, he has, but now that Gerard _has_ noticed, now he has to make a decision, and that, that is worrisome.

"You didn't say anything," Gerard says.

JC isn't sure there was anything to say. There still doesn't seem to be much. Except, maybe, "You kept looking."

"Fuck," Gerard says softly, and kisses JC again, slow and apologetic. "Next time, pinch me."

JC's never found pain to be an efficacious way of getting what he wants.

 

 

*

Sometimes, JC will sing to him. Gerard always expects it to be one of JC's songs—he downloaded the album, so he would know—or one of NSYNC's; he thinks he would recognize them. He has, once or twice, listened to the radio in his lifetime. At the very least, JC could do one of MCR's.

It never is, though. It's always something random, the latest Mary J. Blige, a Beatles standard, German art songs that JC learned as a kid at singing lessons, Billy Joel. JC has a nice voice in the most conventional sense of nice voices. It is well-modulated and clean and he hits all his notes right. Gerard has never liked that kind of voice before. And for all that he knows the way JC's tongue feels on the backs of his knees, the way the brush of JC's hair against the hollow of his neck is beguilingly soft, the way JC's eyes settling on him is unaccountably comfortable, for that knowledge, he still doesn't wholly understand why JC's voice doesn't bore him. But it doesn't.

It doesn't, and when they meet up in LA—JC's out there talking to studios about another album—the fact that JC doesn't sing, not in the shower, burbling into Gerard's ear, not in a sort of hummy way while they're both trying to get to sleep, not as he putters around, organizing his suitcase, gets to Gerard, distracts him, makes him feel...bereft? Maybe. That seems melodramatic. But then, he's Gerard Way, he's allowed. He curls up around JC on their second and last night together and says, "Hey, sing for me?"

JC kisses his eyebrow, a lazy, tender action that Gerard doesn't think he would accept from anybody but JC or his boys. "Sure thing, cat. Whatcha wanna hear?"

"You choose," Gerard says.

"One of yours?"

Gerard has just played two nights in a row, so he says, "If it is, not one of the ones in the show."

Gerard can feel JC's smile against his forehead. "How 'bout this," he says, and launches into some Etta James.

It's good, slow and melancholy and the right sort of thing to lull a boy to sleep except that JC misses a note, just plain misses it, and Gerard doesn't enjoy it as much as he always thought he would. He says, "JC. Jace."

"Sorry," JC says. "Tired, y'know?"

There's tired and then there's tired, and Gerard knows which one this is. "Studio being mean to you?"

JC shakes his head. "Nah. I mean, they're doing what studios do, but it'll be fine. If I have to go indie, I'll go indie. It's not like I haven't got the cash."

"Hey," Gerard says softly, unsurely. "You wanna pretend like I'm your boyfriend and you can tell me things?"

"I wasn't sure you wanted to pretend," JC says, emphasizing the last word. "And it's...betrayal. To talk to you. To talk to anyone except the others."

Gerard knows then, knows without having to be told. "Which one?" But he thinks he knows that, too.

"Justin. He was supposed to be here. We made plans. I was gonna have him meet you. He was maybe gonna sit in on some of the talks. He's good at talks. He's, you know. Justin. Timberlake."

Gerard wonders if Mikey ever says his name like that, filled with love and exasperation and about a million things between the two.

"But, y'know, something better came up. And he asked, it wasn't like he didn't, except that, what am I gonna say? No?" JC shakes his head.

Gerard's chest hurts. Sympathy pangs. "Nothing's _better_."

JC laughs, a small, wet, sick sounding laugh. "I hope that's true for you. I hope—" JC breaths for a bit, loud in the dark, hot and troubled against Gerard's skin. He sings then, and Gerard can hear the absolute, near-bizarre perfection of it. He doesn't recognize the song.

He asks Mikey later, because it sounded pop-like, slow and sad and like it was missing parts, but pop-like, and Mikey went through a pop phase in his late teens, when it was too late to do him any good on the popularity front. He is still slightly bitter about this, but all the same he answers Gerard's question. He answers it with, "Um, are you serious?"

"Pretty serious, yeah," Gerard says.

Mikey sends him the MP3. “I Thought She Knew.” It's one of NSYNC's. Gerard listens, and he can hear all five voices without even trying.

 

 

*

They don't run in the same circles, but the same circles run them at times, so Gerard knows it's only a matter of time before he meets up with Timberlake. It happens at an MTV function that Frank explains to Gerard, yes, they really do have to attend, because sometimes publicity is a person's friend. Gerard waits until Timberlake is standing alone—no common occurrence—and then approaches him with his politest smile. The one he knows is _not_ sweet. He says, "I'm Gerard Way, and you're an asshole."

Timberlake takes a step back, but Gerard notices that his mildly pleasant smile never falters either. "I know who you are, and have we even met?"

Gerard knows that he shouldn't be doing this, that if JC did the reverse to one of his—even given the extent of the crime committed—he would rip JC apart with his teeth. But of late, Gerard has been thinking that he might put JC back together, afterwards, and acknowledge that his intentions were pure. So here he is. "No, but we were supposed to."

Timberlake thinks about that. "When?"

"Almost two months ago. LA."

It takes less than a second for Timberlake to connect the dots, which is sort of impressive, and Gerard thinks there might be more to the kid than anything up to now has suggested. Timberlake says, softly, “ _You're_ the guy who's been making JC flutter?"

Irrationally, Gerard replies in an equally soft, much harder voice, "JC does not flutter."

Timberlake smiles at that, really smiles, which annoys the ever-loving crap out of Gerard. "He does, man, especially when he's happy."

He does, and Gerard knows it, and having a fight with somebody's bandmate—even ex—about their habits is tantamount to stupidity, or something worse, so he says, "Well he wasn't that weekend."

"I know," Timberlake says, and the smile is gone. "I know, I was a shit. I mean, I really did need to get to New York that weekend, but I should have, y'know, figured something out."

Gerard knows he shouldn't ask, that it's almost like asking how much money Timberlake scored for his last album, or who his last blowjob came from, probably worse, but he can't stop himself. "How could you just— How can something like that be over?"

Timberlake says, "Jesus. Get a drink with me, yeah?"

"I'm clean," Gerard tells him. He's not used to having to remind people.

"Coke, then. Or orange juice. But I need something."

"If you need it—"

"Not like that. Just. You asked the fucking question, Way. You have to know."

So Gerard follows him to the bar. Ray catches his eye on the way there and there's curiosity in his gaze, but he leaves well enough alone. Timberlake orders a Jack and Coke, muttering something about Lance. Gerard gets water. Timberlake says, "It's not fucking over. Even when we say it like that, even when Lance gets to come out—which he never would have done, you know—and Joey gets to spend some time with his kid and I get to be Justin Timberlake without all the other letters, and everybody but me and the other guys act like it sounds better, even then we all know, okay? And sometimes I blow Jace or Joey or Chris off because I can't deal with remembering that in their presence. I didn't think...

"And there are ways to go back, but only so far. Besides. That era is done. All you have to do to be able to tell is look at the magazine racks."

Gerard doesn't. He doesn't like seeing himself like that, not even surrounded by the others. Because Timberlake has given him too much information and he would really like to continue to be pissed off at him, he asks, "Not Bass?"

"Huh?" Timberlake says, which is sort of gratifying.

"You said you blow the others off. You didn't list him."

"Lance doesn't give me the chance. He either shows up where he knows I'll be, or he doesn't ask. He holds on to anger harder than the others, and I mostly deserve it, so I let him have it. He has to forgive me at some point."

Gerard doesn't ask why. He knows Timberlake is right. "Don't do it again," Gerard says, and it's not even a warning, not exactly a plea, something like a statement of mutual understanding. "He couldn't _sing_."

Timberlake runs a hand over his face. "Jace. Jacejacejace."

Gerard is annoyed to find himself in agreement. "And when he introduces us—"

"We haven't met. Yeah. I do know him, man. That's why I have the ability to be such an asshole. Which, way to call it."

"You're not charming."

"I am, you're just not easily charmed. Also, possibly one of those people who falls under what we like to call the J dash C split, and so, since you're clearly charmed by C, my charms will be wholly invisible to you."

They're not, but Gerard's not about to tell the kid that.

"You really do make him flutter, though. And one of these days, when I have the higher ground, I'm going to remind you that if you hurt him, well." Timberlake shrugs.

Gerard thinks he would know exactly how to revenge JC. The thought makes him shudder.

"Just. He cares hard and has a tendency to believe that other people are more special and talented than he is and he's just lucky to catch their eye, and it's not that he can't hold his own, because he really, really can, but it does make it easy to take him apart and not even realize you're doing it."

It's one of the best descriptions Gerard knows he's ever going to hear of JC. Despite the fact that he has no reason to trust Timberlake, he says, "I think we probably have a lot in common."

It's the right thing to say, since the next drink Timberlake orders is a Coke, straight, and when he wanders off, his shoulders have loosened back to their come-hither stance. Across the room, Frank raises an eyebrow. Gerard mouths, "Later, fucker."

Minutes later, Mikey finds him and says, "Don't call my boyfriend names."

Gerard laughs.

 

 

*

JC is goofy and sweet enough that often Gerard is able to look over and think, _boyfriend_ without hesitation, or much concern. But there are times, like those when JC's on his knees, his nose pressed to Gerard's pubis, throat cradling Gerard's cock, hands long and steady and perfect on Gerard's thighs, that he is so exquisite Gerard can't stop the _what did I do to deserve this?_ that creeps into his mind. It is one of these times when Gerard purrs, "Jesus, you fucking gorgeous slut," and he means it as the purest term of awe and adoration. JC slips from his cock, and—with a surprising efficiency of movement for a man who usually walks like he's about to dance—runs to the bathroom to puke. The sound alone is enough to kill Gerard's erection. He lopes to the bathroom, uncertain of his welcome but unwilling to leave JC by himself.

JC is mostly done when Gerard passes over the threshold. Gerard waits, and pulls him back from the toilet, propping him against the wall in order to flush. He fills one of the cups by the sink with water and repositions JC over the toilet before bringing the cup to his lips. "Rinse, Jace."

JC is malleable, following the direction, letting Gerard get him up on his feet, into the shower. Gerard performs considerably more than the necessary shower rites, shampooing JC's hair, conditioning it, soaping him down. When he's finished, the shakiness that accompanied the sickness is mostly gone. Gerard wraps him in a towel and hands him his toothbrush and brushes his teeth next to JC, mostly because it seems like the thing to do. He herds them both into the bed and says, "You wanna maybe tell me about that?"

"Like you're ever going to want to put your cock near my mouth again, either way," JC says.

"Hey," Gerard says, and puts his hand to JC's cheek and makes JC look at him. "Hey."

JC blinks and his eyes are wet, but there's nothing on his cheeks. "Look, you just can't be calling me names when I'm, y'know."

"Giving head."

"Or taking it up the ass."

Gerard blinks. JC is sometimes dirty, but he is, as a rule, never crude. He asks, "Did someone hurt you?" and knows he sounds cold and psychotic and like somebody he would write about in a song, but he can't help it. "Did they rape you?"

"No. It's not— It's nothing like that."

Gerard takes a breath. Then two. "What's it like?"

"Gerard—"

"What's it like, Joshua?"

JC looks at him. "I didn't know you knew my name."

"I am well-versed at the internet. Don't change the subject."

"Could you not be touching me while I tell you this?"

Gerard thinks about it. "Would that make you feel better?"

"Yes," JC says quickly. Gerard has learned to know that when JC doesn't have to think about something, it's a lie. He doesn't move his hands. JC sighs, "You're an asshole."

"Yes. But you're not a slut. So who made you think you were one?"

"It's not some big story, okay? I spent a year in LA after high school, looking to get into the business. I had a 40 hour thing at a restaurant, but living on tips doesn't get you far in that kind of a city, and I was auditioning, so there was no time for a second job and eventually I was hungry enough that I took some guy up on an offer of cash for a blowjob. I was pretty awkward looking back then and there wasn't NSYNC yet, so celebrity wasn't fueling anything, but guys liked my lips, sometimes my ass, and I could charge more for that, and I really fucking wanted to sing so I just. Y'know.

"But it got to the point... Well, I called my parents and asked them for the money to get home and promised I'd pay them back and I did, even before NSYNC, I did. So it was fine. Just one of those things that you do when you're young and really fucking stupid."

Gerard caressed his thumb along the crest of JC's cheek. "You said nobody raped you."

"I took the money."

"Yeah, that says consent to me."

"I'm clean, I swear. I didn't tell you you were sleeping with a whore, but I would have told you if—"

"You. Are. Not. A. Whore." For a second, Gerard can't see. There's too much built up rage behind his eyes.

"Right now it's just to the record labels—"

Gerard kisses him, kisses him so hard that his lips grind into his teeth and it hurts and it probably hurts for JC, too, but he can't pull back. When he manages he says, "I wish you'd told me, but not for all the reasons you think. Words are so— I was trying to tell you how hot you were, how fucking brilliant you were, how much I— I wouldn't have used that name. I would have worked harder."

"I don't want you to have to work at all for me," JC tells him, sounding tired, but less wary.

JC is worth it, but there's no way to tell him that that he'll believe just now, and Gerard knows it. "No more names."

JC brings his hand up, curls it over Gerard's. "I like 'starshine.'"

Gerard's lips quirk. That one had been an accident. He'd woken up one morning with JC next to him—he'd hitched a ride with them from one show to the next—and the words, "'Morning, Starshine," had literally fallen from his lips. JC had stretched in that way that made Gerard wonder if he was going to take over the whole bus with his ever-extending limbs, and smiled and hummed the song.

The guys—who never say a damned thing in JC's presence—haven't stopped ragging him about it since. But JC lights up every time Gerard uses it, so he does. He whispers it upon greeting, or murmurs it during sex or sometimes just says it in the middle of conversations, just to watch. "Okay," Gerard says, "we can keep that one."

"Sorry I killed the mood."

Gerard's pretty sure he's the one who did that, but he just presses his forehead to JC's and says, "Another one will come along, I'm pretty sure."

"Yeah," JC says, even as he yawns. "That's a safe bet."

 

 

*

Although Gerard knows better, he thinks of Joey as the easy one and Timberlake as the mildly retarded but fairly well meaning one. When he meets Chris, it's hard to come up with a moniker, because Chris is, well, their Gerard of sorts. Chris shakes his hand and says, "I actually bought your latest album. With money." He smiles calmly, but Gerard watches the shift of his eyes and he knows that if he makes a wrong move, Chris will be the one to kill him.

They go out to dinner, the three of them, someplace swanky that JC has chosen, because neither Gerard nor Chris would think to, someplace where they can hide adequately and in the middle of the meal JC gets up to use the restroom—he calls it the powder room, and Gerard almost follows him, blows him in one of the stalls—and Chris says, "He told you about LA."

Gerard wonders if he looks at JC differently. He hopes not. "I said something I shouldn't have."

There's a pause before Chris admits, "That can happen with him."

"How did you—"

"He said. Sort of. I asked him what it was about you and he said you didn't want him to be someone else, which usually means somebody doesn't want him to be Jup, and that's, y'know, pretty fucked up, but when he said it this time he didn't mean that."

Gerard doesn't ask how Chris knows. If Mikey told Gerard something like that, if Ray or Frank or Bob did, he would hear the same differences. He says, "I would be fucking stupid. To want that. And I'm not."

"That's yet to be determined, but so far you're making a decent showing."

Gerard takes a second to decide whether to snarl or laugh. Chris waits him out, so he laughs. Then he sobers and asks, "Timberlake, really? When they had Jace?”

"I love J, hand to G-d, but I really don't know what the hell people are thinking most of the time."

Gerard knows that people have taken Mikey—long, talented, quiet, perfectly-fractured Mikey—and pretended to have him. It's not something they talk about, ever. Gerard can't apologize for it, there's nothing to say, so he won't. And Mikey seems to expect, accept it. Gerard thinks Frank has made him a little bit angrier, a little bit more...demanding, and Gerard would love Frank for that, even if there was nothing else. "Yeah."

"Take care of him, Way."

"Could you call me Gerard?" he asks, because there are two Ways present for this conversation, at least in Gerard's head and he wants Chris to be speaking to him.

"Gerard. Don't fuck this up." It's said softly, not like a threat, like a request. Gerard knows how quickly it could become the former.

"Best of intentions," Gerard says, a bit glumly.

Chris grins then. "Oh yeah, you two are fucking meant for each other."

JC slides back into his seat. "What'd I miss?"

"The vetting," Gerard tells him.

"Oh good, that's always uncomfortable anyway."

Chris ruffles JC's hair and JC ducks away, but not so far that Chris can't continue to touch him.

 

 

*

It is, Gerard thinks, what Lemony Snicket would call an Unfortunate Series of Events. One that he pretty much trips. Well, all right, not completely. Gerard can sort of include Frank in the blame. And JC. Although that last is only pretty much just for existing, which maybe isn't entirely fair.

It starts like this: JC drops in on the DC show. They have a free night the day before, so it's a good time for him to come around. DC is where JC grew up, so he says, "C'mon, I'll show you around," and he means all of them. He takes them to an organic restaurant that's evidently some kind of institution and walks around with them a bit and then they head back to the hotel. They should sleep, but their patterns are off—eternally off—from the travel and the playing and getting all mixed up in each other's schedules. Mikey proposes a game of Risk, to which JC brashly and casually responds, "I can so take you."

Gerard is sort of turned on by his boyfriend's bravado when he's not busy thinking it's kind of cute. As it turns out, though, JC's a tactical little fucker, and has evidently learned how to play dirty. Gerard thinks, "Way to go, Kirkpatrick," because JC didn't pick that up on his own. Three-quarters into the way of total domination, JC takes Germany and Frank gasps, "You complete _whore_."

If he looked over, Gerard would have seen JC beginning to laugh. He doesn't. He snaps, " _Don't_ call him that."

Frank looks at him, bewildered; Mikey's hands pause with the dice; Bob glances up—faintly puzzled—from the magazine he's reading. Ray is in his own room, which is the only saving grace. Gerard loves Ray.

JC's, "It's okay, Gigi," is soft and seems to take a long time to come, despite the fact that Gerard knows it's immediate, as is his, " _Shit_ ," at Mikey's clearly unstoppable, " _Gigi_?"

JC is a fervent swearer. Gerard generally finds it kind of hot. He's currently distracted. Frank has a hand over Mikey's mouth, which Mikey isn't doing a damn thing to move. JC puts his hands over his face. "Can we please pretend that I didn't say that? Because I'm going to have to cry if Gerard breaks up with me."

JC sounds kind of serious, both about the crying thing and the breaking up thing. Gerard wonders if maybe he should tell him that it would take more than a little unintentional humiliation, especially considering that Gerard started the unintentional humiliation, and if JC had just been trying to get his own back on, he really probably would have deserved it.

"Hey," Frank touches a hand to JC's wrist, "Hey, don't cry. He's not gonna break up with you."

Frank looks expectantly at Gerard. Oh, right. "I'm totally not."

"And I won't call you dirty names anymore, since that's evidently a thing for him."

Mikey is looking at Gerard. Gerard has maybe called Mikey a whore from time to time, mockingly. Gerard has maybe let Mikey call Frank a whore before. While Gerard and Frank were together. Bob has his eyes narrowed as well, but at least he's staying quiet. JC comes out from behind his hands, eyes dry but a little bit wan. He looks at Frank. "He's protective of me."

Frank nods.

"It makes me feel safe," JC says, with casual intent that catches at Gerard's breath. Because JC doesn't really need his protection, or at least, not at the level of insistence with which Gerard lends it to him. Gerard is not unaware of this fact. JC is actually older than him, and has survived at least as much. He has survived the dissolution of his band with his sanity intact. Gerard has reason to question if he will be able to say the same of himself when the time comes. And maybe it's the fact that he has survived all of that, which makes Gerard defend and protect with such vigor. Mostly, Gerard knows, it's just the way he's built.

That JC doesn't need it, really doesn't, but that he allows it, that he enjoys it... Yeah, Gerard _really_ isn't breaking up with him over the Gigi thing, not even if he has to shoot all of his band members to get them to shut up. He can aim for non-fatal spots.

Frank looks at Gerard when he says, "Good,” and puts JC's pieces on France. "So, you gonna finish this thing?"

JC cocks an eyebrow and says, as coolly as he can manage, "I started it, didn't I?"

 

 

*

Before he leaves, JC tucks Gerard's hair behind his ear—not that there's much hair to be tucked—and says, "Talk to your brother. Because Frank is gonna beat the crap out of you if you don't, and I might have to sympathize with him."

Gerard looks away. "You shouldn't talk about things you don't know about."

"I don't," JC says and pulls Gerard's face back for a kiss. Gerard kisses in return, because it's true, JC doesn't.

He finds Mikey and Frank in the kitchen area, laughing at something, and Frank walks away as though Gerard has asked if he can talk to Mikey, when in fact he's barely set foot into the space. Frank brushes him as he ambles past, fingers wafting over Gerard's stomach. Both Gerard and Mikey are silent for a long moment until Mikey asks, "You want some coffee?"

Gerard nods. Mikey grabs the bag from the freezer, dumps a teaspoon more than necessary into the filter and sets the beans to percolating. Just the smell makes things a little bit easier and Gerard says, "If it had been bitch or twat or cunt or any of those things, I wouldn't have even thought about it."

"You did, though." Mikey leans against the counter, his hands looking like they're holding him up, but Gerard knows better. Of late Mikey's been fine on his own two feet—Frank's, in a pinch.

"He used to—" Gerard looks past Mikey, out the window. "See, he told me to talk to you, which I take to mean that I can tell you his secrets, but he didn't exactly say that and it's not that you aren't the person I would tell if I told someone because who else would there be, but it's just his secret, is all."

Mikey takes all of this in with a long, slow blink. He turns to grab a couple of mugs from the cabinet. "He used to...sell sexual favors?"

Gerard nods, tight and economical.

"Boybands are fucked up," Mikey says over the sound of coffee being poured. He hands a mug to Gerard and says, "Sit down."

Gerard obeys. "This was before. The boyband thing."

"Well, yeah."

"It makes him feel ugly. And he's not."

"I think that can be stated pretty objectively."

"Mikey—"

"The part that absolutely fucking blows, Gee, is that there have been all these times when it would have been so utterly perfect, easy, the best to blame you for not snapping at someone else in my defense, not reminding me that you weren't going to stop being my brother, but I get to blame you for a lot of shit that probably isn't your fault and at some point, not everything can be, you know?"

Gerard doesn't say anything, just sips at his coffee, takes comfort in the way it's still a bit too hot, brewed just a bit too strong.

"It wasn't exactly a rhetorical question."

Gerard knows. "You're trickier than he is."

"How, Gee? You've known me our entire fucking life. You've known me longer than _I've_ known me."

"And I've never once been what you needed."

Mikey chokes on his coffee and Gerard's up so quickly he doesn't feel himself move, pulling Mikey out of the booth, rubbing on his back, waiting for his breath to settle back into normal. "Do you need water?"

Mikey shakes his head, manages a somewhat distressed, "Fine."

Gerard gets him the water. Mikey takes it, sips at it a bit. Finally he says, "Maybe if you believed you were what I needed a little more often, it might be a self-fulfilling prophecy."

Gerard can feel himself looking doubtful. Mikey smiles, asks, "What does it matter whether you're what I need or not? You're Gee. I love you that way."

"It matters," Gerard tells him.

"Then it would have to matter that I'm never quite who you need me to be either, and I don't think I want for that to matter."

Only Gerard knows that, truthful statement or not, Mikey thinks it sometimes—a lot of the time—and so it does, by definition, matter. "Vicious cycle."

Mikey nods.

"I don't love him more than I love you."

Mikey is silent for a long time at that. "Do you think I love Frank more?"

Gerard shrugs. "Maybe you should."

"Stop being an asshole."

"That's gonna be complicated."

Mikey smiles. "I don't."

Gerard looks at Mikey carefully.

Mikey repeats, "I don't."

Gerard nods, "Okay."

"You're still totally gonna let him call me a whore, aren't you?"

"On stage, even."

 

 

*

If Chris is Gerard, Lance is Frank, only not as nice. It's not that Lance is mean, exactly, but Gerard understands—within seconds, actually, of meeting him—that in this universe, Mikey left Frank. The thought makes Gerard a bit nauseated, which is a surprise. Also, he sort of wishes that JC had thought to mention that he and Lance were together at one point. That Lance might still be pretty in love.

Carefully, Gerard does not think about the fact that in this universe, JC is Mikey. Because that's a little much, even for him. There are boundaries, and then there are boundaries. Not that JC's a mirror image, anymore than he and Chris are. That's just how the logistics work out. Still.

Lance says, "Hey, it's nice to meet you," but his eyes are cool and distant and it would be hot, actually, if Gerard weren't pretty much hung up on Lance’s best friend.

"You too," Gerard says, and means it, because JC talks about Lance a lot, and, okay, maybe JC sort of has told him, without telling him. Gerard's not sure he's ever explicitly mentioned the Frank thing either. JC’s made it pretty clear he knows.

JC says, "Can you, uh, give us a second?"

Gerard says, "I had to go to the bathroom anyway." He doesn't, but since Lance isn't going to be civil, someone's going to have to be.

JC comes and gets him. It's ten minutes, and Gerard's been hanging out in the bathroom the whole time, hoping nobody recognizes him and wonders what the hell he's doing just checking himself out in the mirror. JC says, "Look, he's really not—"

"You maybe should have mentioned about the two of you, before this."

JC nods, "I know. I know. But I was maybe a little angry at you for still being in love with Frank the first eight or so times you slept with me."

Gerard nods. "Not one of my better moments."

Still, when JC says, "I'm sorry," it's quiet and nervous and Gerard feels sort of assholish for being the one to make him sound that way.

"Me too." He wishes they weren't in public, weren't in a restroom. The things he wants aren't even so extreme. Mostly he wants to press his lips to the corner of JC's mouth, have JC curl into him. "Stay here for a couple of minutes?"

"Five?" JC asks.

"That'll do."

Gerard goes back to the table and Lance's eyes flicker to the side, looking for JC. Gerard says, "He'll be back shortly."

Lance is quiet for a second. Then he says, "I, uh. Look, I'm not generally this much of a jerk."

"Well, I'm not usually this much of a pussy, so between the two of us, we can probably manage to salvage the afternoon."

Lance chokes on his drink.

"Sorry," Gerard says.

"Nope, that was. Right."

"I could be good for him," Gerard says softly. He really thinks he could. "Timberlake says I make him flutter."

"That's mostly the issue," Lance says.

"Oh." Gerard nods. "Yeah." There are moments when he really, _really_ hates Mikey.

"But he is...happy. Really fucking happy."

Gerard keeps his smile small. He doesn't like hurting other people, and he thinks he might like this person in front of him, this perfectly contained, fucked-up man. "He's fucking my music up. Makes me want to write happy shit."

"Why do you think we were a boyband?" Lance asks.

"Before I would have said it was because you were all so fucking pretty and nice."

"We're not that nice," Lance says.

"Like I said, before." Gerard pauses. "He is that nice."

"Yeah." Lance sighs.

"You drink?"

"On occasion."

"Let me buy you a couple."

Lance nods. "Right decent of you."

Gerard catches JC's approach from the corner of his eye. JC sidles in and says, "The men's bathrooms here have hairspray samples in them."

Gerard can smell it on him.

 

 

*

JC finally gets his single on the market and does a bunch of publicity that Timberlake's not there for, even if Gerard thinks he should be. It's none of Gerard's business, not really, but the third week in to the constant red eye flights and lone interviews and the non-stop questions about Lance that Gerard knows it kills JC not to be wholly honest about—particularly when Lance will never, ever betray him, but cannot completely hide his own sense of betrayal—JC calls him and says, "Hey, Gee," and there's nothing but desperate need in the greeting.

"Starshine," Gerard says, throwing caution out the window. Frank looks up at him and frowns, because it's not something he would normally say in front of them. "I've been watching the YouTubes."

"Yeah, it's— I mean, the music's gonna speak for itself, right?"

Gerard's heard some of it. He thinks it does and he doesn't even particularly like that type of music. But then, this is JC. "You speak for yourself."

"How're the guys?"

"Bob’s being kept amiable and compliant with the help of packages from Spencer filled with his mom’s chocolate chip cookies. Ray currently holds every video game championship title available on this bus. Frank's considering another tattoo, so that's keeping Mikey occupied." Gerard is painfully aware he can't ask, "And yours?" Not really.

"Whatever keeps the kids out of trouble," JC says, with something almost like a laugh, but it's too singular, too lacking in harmony to precisely be one.

"Jace—"

"I'm just tired. I shouldn't have called."

"I'm glad you did."

"You're like that," and for the first time in the whole conversation, JC sounds honestly happy about something. About Gerard.

He can't help but internalize it a little bit. "Where are you?"

"Uh," there's some shuffling on the other ends, "Cincinnati? No, Columbus. Yup. College. Columbus."

Gerard smiles a little at that. He knows the feeling. "Another week?"

"For this leg, yeah."

"Then home?"

"I don't know. I was thinking of going out to Chicago. See my folks. I keep just stopping by on my days off, and y'know."

"We're gonna be in Chicago," Gerard says, with a slight edge of suspicion.

"Yeah, it was smart of you to sync your palm to my laptop."

Gerard would protest, but he's feeling pretty brilliant just at the moment. He says, because it sounds like JC needs to hear it, "I miss you."

Frank's eyes get so wide Gerard's a little afraid they're gonna fall right out. Mikey is seemingly unphased by Gerard's behavior, but he has Frank to freak out for him. Frank tilts his head and mouths, "Say hi."

"Frank does, too."

JC chuckles a bit at that.

"Hey," Mikey says.

"Mikey's now feeling left out."

"Aw," JC coos.

"Fuckers," Bob says.

"Bob sends love as well."

"You guys tie Ray to the top of the bus again? I told you that wasn't on."

For all Gerard knows, Ray tied _himself_ to the top of the bus. "We couldn't help ourselves."

JC says, "I'll be sure to punish you when I see you."

Gerard skips a breath, then recovers his rhythm. "Promises, promises."

"Think I can't deliver?"

Gerard has heard JC's music. There isn't a single dirty thing he puts past his boy. But taunting JC almost always has its bright sides. Gerard can practically taste that side this time. "We'll see."

"You wanna meet my parents?" JC throws out and it's such a spectacular 360 that Gerard gets dizzy.

"Uh."

"You don't have to. It was just a thought."

"Parents don't always like me," Gerard says.

"I bet Frank's mom did."

"Well, she gave birth to Frank."

Frank blinks, but knows better than to ask.

"Mine can't really claim that whole having given birth thing, but they've gotten used to me all the same. They're less scary than Chris and Lance. Hell, they're less scary than either one."

"Jace—"

"I'll still be utterly fucktarded over you, even if they don't."

"Oh."

"So you haven't got much to lose."

"Huh."

Frank laughs at him. Gerard flips him off.

"You can think about it. You've got a couple of weeks."

Gerard almost takes the out. Almost. Then he remembers that if he can survive hours of screaming teenagers, he can survive a few with JC's parents. It might be close, but he'll manage. He's strong like that. "No, that's, that's good. Let's do that."

"Sure?"

"Long as you make good on your promises."

"Mm, why do I get the feeling you're not really the type?"

Gerard doesn't say anything, it's both nice and embarrassing that JC knows exactly how far his sexual adventurousness stretches. JC says, "Maybe I'll let you punish _me_. Cruel of me, forcing you to make nice with the folks."

"True."

JC laughs and the sound is so clean Gerard feels nearly slapped by it. He tells Gerard, "You can do whatever you want with me, all right? Just get your ass to Chicago."

"I'll do that."

"Good boy."

 

 

*

Gerard brings flowers for JC's mom, because moms—in his, all right, somewhat limited experience—like flowers. They have birds of paradise in them. Gerard likes birds of paradise. They are long and elegant like Mikey, but splashed with color like Frank. Their stalks are sturdy like Bob and the whole effect is somewhat unusual like Ray. Also, they're pretty. JC likes pretty things. Most of the time.

He brings chocolate for JC's father, Godiva, because it's classy like wine, but Gerard doesn't have to refuse if he tries to share, which is always awkward. JC's mom takes the gifts and says, "It's nice to meet you, sweetie," and smiles at him, and Gerard hates to admit it, but the pet name makes him hope that maybe she'll think he deserves her son after all.

"You too, ma'am."

"Karen," she says. "Come on, I want to get these in water."

JC—who has clearly abandoned his utterly loyal boyfriend to the fates—skips down the stairs, yes, _skips_ , and kisses Gerard like they're not in front of G-d and his mom and everyone. "Hey, Gigi."

Gerard's going to kill him. Slowly. After they've had one last fuck. Which is the only thing that saves JC for the moment; that, and the fact that Gerard sort of likes this woman who is smiling at them over her shoulder, making her way to her kitchen. JC fits himself up against Gerard's back and says, "Mm, you smell good," and, more softly, "I got us presents."

Gerard twists slightly and whispers, "Stop now or I'll take you on the table, in front of both your parents."

JC calls the bluff. "Liar."

However, Gerard deals not only with Mikey, but Frank and Bob and Ray on a regular basis. He knows how to be a stone-cold killer. His expression gives nothing away. JC smiles. "See, you're good, but honestly? Chris was better. Some of the shit he could get me to believe..." JC shakes his head. "Sadly for you, I don't tend to make the same mistake twice."

Gerard's expression doesn't crack. JC says, "Hey. Hey."

And that's the moment where Gerard breathes again, not even aware he had stopped. JC puts a palm to Gerard's chest, "They already like you. You make me flutter."

Gerard blinks.

"I know what you all say about me. And you know I'm not stupid, so let's acknowledge both those facts, and then you can listen to me when I say, they already like you. And you're not gonna screw this up."

"You didn't let them listen to the albums, did you?"

"My dad checked you out of the library the first time I said something."

"Jace, they're telling you they like me, they're going to kill me in my sleep."

"They're Mennonites, Gerard."

This does not reassure Gerard. If anything, he knows his eyes fill with a sort of belated panic.

"Um, I meant that they're pacifists."

"They think you're dating the devil."

"No, I explained that you save lives."

"Jace—"

"I know, I know you don't like that, I know it freaks you out, but that's something they can understand. My mom used to read some of the letters that came to NSYNC, about how we made kids happy. And all this is beside the point. You're a good person, and I'm completely in love with you, and they sort of like it when I'm happy, what with me being their son, and all, so you need to relax. Also, my mom likes birds of paradise."

Gerard's brain slows for a minute. Then he asks, "Could you go back a sentence and a few clauses?"

"Nope, I said it, you heard it, that's enough."

"Your mom serves on the board of a hospital and likes making multi-layered cakes with complicated frosting patterns, and your dad has a passion for sudoku and likes watching dog shows."

"I know you listen to me."

"I didn't, at first. Not much."

"I know that, too."

"When did you tell them about me?"

"Right before I brought Joey around."

"I'd started paying attention by then."

"Yeah, I figured maybe we had a shot."

Gerard wants to say, "Thanks for trying so hard." He wants to say, "It wasn't personal." He wants to say, "I love you, too."

He's still just staring at JC when Karen calls, "Boys, you coming?"

"Be right there, mom!" JC kisses him again, says, "Move your ass. My mom made one of her cakes for dessert."

Gerard doesn't mention the vegan thing. He doubts he'll turn down a slice.

 

 

*

JC goes back to the hotel with Gerard, because he is not, under any circumstances, having sex with JC under his parent's roof. Particularly not possibly-mildly-kinky sex. No.

JC has a messenger bag on, the strap snug against his chest, and the moment they're inside the door Gerard slips a hand between strap and shirt. "Presents, huh?"

JC smiles. "Greedy bitch."

Gerard blinks languidly. JC pulls the bag over his head. Gerard keeps his hand where it is. One of JC's hands digs inside the bag and comes out with a blindfold, a professionally made one that will clearly block out any light, let alone actual visual stimulators. It is black and heavy looking, a bit decadent.

"Nice," Gerard breaths. Then, "You said gifts. Plural."

JC flushes, twists his head slightly so that he's no longer facing Gerard. "Um. We don't have to use the second one. Only if you think you'd like."

Gerard leans in, nips at the almost-harsh crest of JC's cheek. "Show me, starshine."

The name loosens something in JC, much as Gerard suspected it would. He fishes into the bag again and pulls out a set of beads. Anal beads. Gerard, who was already heating up, goes hard so fast that dots swim in front of his eyes. "Please get naked for me. Right now."'

"Yeah, okay," JC says, and scrambles to fulfill the request.

"Also, if you could undress me?" Really, Gerard would have done it himself, but watching JC writhe and wriggle out of his clothes didn't really improve upon his already slightly damaged motor skills. Which is fine, because JC grins and gets to work, stealing a kiss off Gerard's mouth, to his shoulder, his hip, the back of his knee. Gerard takes a breath and draws JC to his feet. "That's enough from you," he says, and herds him to the bed, where he ties the blindfold in place. He waits a second for JC to adjust to the pure dark. "Okay?"

"I'm with you," JC says, like that's an answer to the question.

Gerard goes to grab the beads, and the lube JC also has in his bag. He grabs a couple of condoms while he's at it. He tugs JC down the bed a bit, grinning at JC's giggle. He sits at the edge of the bed and works to get JC ass-upwards over his knees. JC shivers a bit.

"Cold?" Gerard asks. It'll be a pain to get up and go turn the thermostat up, but he will.

"Anticipatory," JC says. Gerard gets turned on by the sound of multi-syllabic words on JC's tongue.

He runs a finger down the length of JC's spine, then lubes it up, inserts it into his ass. Gerard is slow about it, gentle, even though he knows JC requires neither. There's a second finger, and a third and JC whimpers, "Too slow, Gigi, too slow."

"Sh," Gerard says. "I think we discussed punishment."

"Oh fuck, I _am_ dating the devil."

Gerard doesn't feel bad for JC. It's not as if he didn't warn him. He rolls the first of the beads, the largest, in his palm, warming it, wetting it, and presses it into JC, who moans, pleads, "More, please."

"Since you asked so nicely."

It's wildly erotic, watching the beads disappear into JC, watching him shiver and unfold under the stimulation. Gerard's almost afraid he won't make it to the part he's planned so carefully, but he's still got a hold on himself—if not a tight one—by the time the last bead is snug in place. Without a word, he raises his hand and brings it down on the lower curve of JC's ass.

JC's breath catches, "Fuck, oh man."

"Too much?"

JC doesn't even think, "No, no."

Gerard lands another smack to the rounded middle of one cheek, then the other. After that the pattern varies, JC's skin warming under his hand, the beads—he's sure—shifting with every impact. JC is a wild, sobbing thing on his lap, gorgeous and untamed and yet somehow _his_ and when Gerard can't look at him for longing anymore, he pulls the beads in one long, smooth motion.

JC presses himself into Gerard's hip and comes simply at that. Gerard says, "Mm, mm," and transfers JC so that he's bent over the bed, rolling a condom onto himself and pressing in. There's no finesse to it, nothing, JC keening at the overstimulation. Gerard barely gets two thrusts in, and he's back in fucking high school, nothing but, "good, good, so good, so hot."

When he can, he drags both of them up far enough on the bed that they can lie facing each other, pulling JC's blindfold off. JC blinks slowly, in time with his now lazy breathing. He says, "Yup, definitely the devil."

Gerard reaches out to caress at his cheek. "You okay?"

"No."

Gerard's chest squeezes until JC finishes his thought with, "Okay never feels this good."

Gerard pulls JC to him, wrapping him in his arms, and JC reciprocates, long, muscled limbs doing their evident best to keep Gerard where he is. Gerard doesn't think he'll put up much of a fight.

 

 

*

JC asks it over the phone one day, which is odd, because JC generally saves the important stuff for when they're together. He's very human in that way, sometimes too human for Gerard and Gerard will twist and try to pull himself free and JC will just wait for him to come back. It's terrifying, but evidently also brilliant, because Gerard always ends up back where JC is still sitting, calm and just a bit hopeful.

JC asks, "Is it that you don't trust me, or yourself, or that you've just gotten used to saying these things? Because I know we can't talk about each other in public and I know that's as much me asking it of you as you asking it of me, or maybe more me asking, but not by too much, and I know life can be pretty long and all, but it sort of sucks that I'm mostly completely indecently in love with you and you're still invested in dying alone."

Gerard remembers saying the words that had to have prompted this, remembers the sort of autopilot that compelled him to do so. Stalling for time, Gerard asks, "You just happen to be watching MTV?"

"No, Gigi," JC always makes the soft "g" sound harsh when he's frustrated, it's a sure sign, "you're my boyfriend, I make it a point to watch your interviews."

"Really?" And now Gerard is validly curious, because he doesn't watch a lot of JC's interviews, doesn't like listening to him gloss over things that Gerard knows the truth of.

"I don't get to see you a lot," JC says, sounding like he doesn't understand why they're even talking about this.

"But that's not really me."

"More of you than you probably allow yourself to believe."

Gerard doesn't really know what to say to that. He would dismiss it, only JC knows him pretty well. Also, JC sees things that most people don't see, pays attention in ways others can't be bothered to. JC sighs. "It's not exactly that I want to fuck with your emo, I get that that's your livelihood. But I kinda do. I kinda want to think that I make you happy, which I'm pretty sure is a normal relationship thing." JC's pretty sure. Gerard's pretty sure, too, but he gets that neither of them is in a position to know. He closes his eyes, rubs at his temple.

"Fuck," JC says, and laughs, but it's the laugh he uses when his only other option is to cry and he would prefer the former.

"Jace—"

"It's fine, Gerard." JC enunciates each "r". "It's fine. We all have our things."

"You make me happy."

"Momentarily?"

"What the hell else is there, JC?" and okay, maybe Gerard is frustrated, too. "I mean, what, you _know_ I'm going to be driving you crazy twenty years from now?"

"Don't make me sound stupid for being optimistic, okay? That's an assholish thing to do and you're not an asshole."

"Except, evidently, when I am."

JC sighs. Gerard winces. "I wasn't trying to make you sound stupid. I don't think you're stupid."

"I'm not always wrong, either. You're a keeper. I think you've just gotten really used to thinking you're not. To thinking that if Frank Iero, of all people, couldn't keep you, nobody could. But Frank would have if you'd held on just a bit, he would have and then I would have been screwed and maybe you would have been happier and I'd like to think that would have made it okay, only it wouldn't have, not for me. But the point is that you are a keeper, even if you weren't for Frank you are for me and you should know somewhere that I plan on keeping you, so if you want to die alone you're going to have to kill me or wait till I'm dead, which I guess I am older than you, so maybe, or move to Argentina and change your name and possibly have lots of cosmetic surgery."

"You're only a year older than me," Gerard says, because the thought of JC dying on him is a little bit alarming. Gerard has a fear of losing things, even little things, like his shoes. Luckily, Mikey always knows where to look for the stuff like that.

"So it's probably the first or last option for you." JC sounds happy about that. Gerard soaks up the sound.

"Probably," he admits.

"See, now I'll know that, the next time you get all emo on me in an interview."

Gerard tucks himself up, smiles into his knees. JC says, "You're going to have a time getting rid of me. Seriously."

Gerard can't say that he knows that, it's still a little too big for that sort of declaration. He says, "Okay," and lets JC know that he's trying. JC always accepts what Gerard can give.

 

 

*

Frank's been staring at his Sidekick, listening to his earphones in mild puzzlement with an underlay of awe for roughly thirty minutes when Mikey finally asks, "Are you watching midget porn?"

Gerard chokes on his coffee. Bob smirks. Frank, bizarrely, doesn't laugh. He takes the earphones out and looks at Gerard. "What'd Jace tell you about his latest single?"

Gerard frowns. "He said it was gonna be a while before he finished production on it, and that he didn't know if I'd get a chance to listen before they marketed it."

"Um. That's. Interesting." Frank stands and comes to sit by Gerard. He puts his earphones in Gerard's ears, says, "Listen."

Gerard listens once. Then he asks, "Could you play that again?"

Frank doesn't even complain about Gerard's appropriation of his Sidekick, just replays the song. Gerard finishes the second listen through, takes out the earphones and sets them gently aside. "I'm gonna—" Gerard gestures toward the bunks, but Frank catches his hand.

"Hey."

"I just need to— I don't know how to hear that." Gerard nods, as if to reassure himself that that is an adequate reaction.

"Yeah, well, hard to when you don't know when he wrote it, or if he was even talking about you."

"Right. See? Right."

"For someone who's good with metaphors, you take things awfully literally," Mikey—unnoticed by both Frank and Gerard—has stolen the earphones and let himself in on the conversation.

"He's kinda direct," Gerard says.

"But 'ruined' doesn't always have negative connotations, not in the context he's using it." Mikey doesn't look impressed by Gerard's pessimism. Except that all the other metaphors, everything about the song is resistant.

"Am I the only one here who thinks it's kind of sweet?" Mikey asks. "I mean, fucked up, but honestly, Gee, the day you're in a relationship that makes linear sense is probably the same day hell holds a skiing tournament."

"Sweet," Gerard says. It's not exactly a question, although he has to think about it. Whatever else, JC is saying that he was gone from the very first. Gerard wasn't, not precisely. He was a little hooked from the beginning, a little awed. But if JC and him had ended after that first time, it probably just would have been a really hot memory. He's sort of lucky JC saw what he saw. Incredibly lucky.

"Go," Frank says.

"Call him," Mikey adds. Gerard rarely follows instructions, but when he does, he's meticulous about it.

 

 

*

Gerard texts JC, "You ruined me?"

JC responds, "I can't be with anyone, since I felt our worlds collide."

And okay, sweet, but Gerard has to come back with, "I don't wanna be in love, I don't wanna feel this way, all I wanna do is leave, but all I can do is stay."

JC texts back, "Locked inside your heart shaped box. At first. You didn't even see."

Gerard calls him. "I saw."

"No, no. I caught your eye. Like something metallic in the sun. Too bright not to notice, but not important enough to _see_."

"I thought that was it for you, too."

"Gerard."

"No, I mean, I know it wasn't now. But then, I thought it was. Except not so shiny, but you know. Eye-catching. More like tag art, I guess."

"The sort you have to look closer at, because it has something to say, and then, when you're looking closer, you notice that maybe the artist used different paints than you might have expected, or that there's some sort of color theme that wasn't immediately apparent."

Gerard is pretty impressed by that metaphor. "You look at a lot of tag art?"

"I see things," JC says. "Valuable things."

"So you wrote it—"

"After the third time."

Gerard closes his eyes. The third time JC had not-so-accidentally found Gerard at an MTV function and the two of them had escaped to a Starbucks, despite the fact that JC doesn't like their coffee. He will drink their tea. Gerard remembers thinking, "This is getting to be comfortable," which should have been a boring thought, but wasn't. He remembers going back to JC's hotel room and the way JC had given himself over and the fact that Gerard's reaction had been a sort of envy that JC was able to do that for just anyone. Except, "I wasn't just anyone."

JC laughs lightly, "Gerard Way, Gerard."

"Okay, no, you don't get to— JC Chasez, JC."

"I don't save lives."

"You make them better. Someone's got to, and there don't seem to be a whole lot of people lining up for the job."

"I'm just saying, you were a worthy object over which to break, you know? I didn't feel any shame when I wrote that song."

Despite appearances, Gerard well knows that JC's not entirely shameless. "I was a little shamed hearing it. You told me—"

"I know. I lied to you. I couldn't just give it to you and wait to have you call me, or worse, watch you while you were listening to it. I couldn't."

"Maybe next time you could just say that. Just say, 'I need you to wait.'"

"That didn't occur to me."

"We're not the best people in the world at the obvious."

JC snorts. "Understatement."

On an almost mammoth level. Gerard returns to what he is pretty sure is the point of this conversation. "The third time. So you... You don't wanna leave? Anymore? I mean, it's not just compulsive at this point?"

"You seem to want me to stay, now."

"Really, really want that," Gerard agrees softly.

"Then I suppose it's a good thing I'm all ruined for anyone else."

"I didn't mean—"

"If you had, I don't think you could have managed." No, JC is pretty solid in the face of obvious threats.

Gerard has noticed. "I'm kinda ruined, too."

"Sorry."

"No you're not."

"Not even the tiniest bit, nope."

 

 

*

Europe means expensive phone calls and complicated time coordination for online chatting, so it's been a couple of weeks since JC and he have done much more than email each other by the time Gerard gets back stateside. JC's waiting on the tarmac. It's a private landing strip but he still probably shouldn't be. Gerard really, really doesn't care. He can go back to caring tomorrow, he's sure.

JC has the training to wait until they're back at the hotel to be all over him, arms wrapping around him, mouth everywhere. Gerard whimpers, "Jace, fuck."

"Missed you," JC says, low and intent and honest, so utterly honest.

"Yes," Gerard tells him, opening himself as much as he knows how. "Yes."

After that words are useless, just something to come between them as they curl up around each other, over each other, Gerard's mouth finding JC's cock even as JC's mouth does the same. It's been a while—a quick shower session in lonely hotels no longer counts as much as it used to for Gerard—and it doesn't take long. JC pulls off of him when they're finished, onto his back. He loosens up, splays out in that way that Gerard could watch for hours, forever. He kicks his shoes off and laughs. "Welcome back."

Gerard laughs at that, too, pulling off his shirt, hoping that JC will take the hint and he can look at what has been disallowed him for over a month now. JC's good at catching on. Gerard licks from hipbone to nipple. It's not even an invitation, an inciting moment, he just wants to taste. JC always settles on his tongue clean and a bit tingly, like peppermint, only not. JC is, in all things, indescribable.

Also ticklish, which is a plus, because licking means giggling. Gerard likes to listen. It's not a sound he can put in his music—although he has come to wish he could—but it is something that puts him in the mindset of music, of that sort of freedom of expression. "One of these days," JC tells him, breathless from allowing Gerard his tongue-torture, "I shall have my revenge."

"Oh?" Gerard raises an eyebrow.

JC nods. "When you least expect it."

"I'm not entirely sure I ever expect _anything_ when it comes to you, Jace." Which reminds Gerard. "There was something I wanted to try."

JC looks interested. "Okay."

"You're supposed to ask what."

"Well, but see, you were expecting that." He has a point.

"It could hurt."

"Mm." JC licks at the corner of Gerard's mouth. "Trying to get me all ready again?"

Gerard looks down at where JC is stirring, ever so slightly. "Are you _sure_ you're older than me?"

"Almost a whole year. G-d loves me."

"It's because you sing about puppies and kittens."

"And digital sex and being cuckolded."

"You turn me on when you get all Shakespearian on me."

JC laughs aloud at that, a boisterous, open sound. "Oh baby, oh baby."

Gerard grins. "So you wanna try?"

"No asphyxiation," JC tells him, "that shit fucks with your vocal chords."

Gerard isn't really turned on by the risk involved anyway. "No, none of that."

"I'm yours, Gigi."

Just then, Gerard can't find a way not to believe him.

 

 

*

Gerard grabs the container of Cetaphil that he picked up before Europe when he began vaguely considering this, thinking about the things JC is always giving him and what he could maybe ask for. _Slow_ , Gerard tells himself. This has to be done slowly. Which is fine, because Gerard has already gotten off, and he likes touching JC. He loves touching JC.

Gerard warms the lotion in his hands. He says, "On your stomach, gorgeous."

JC smiles, his eyes crinkling in appreciation at the compliment. Then he rolls over. Gerard takes a moment to just appreciate what's his before placing his hands on JC's lower back and moving them all the way up to his shoulders. He massages JC's shoulders, his arms, occasionally dipping in for more lotion. He works his knuckles into the places where JC's muscles are hard, knotted from the day-in-day-out living of life. JC whimpers when he does this, squirms, but doesn't try to get away. He clearly trusts Gerard to make it better. Gerard does, making his touch lighter as JC relaxes into it, loses bone and muscle and structure to the bed. When JC is clearly floating, Gerard turns him over. He says, "Hey."

JC grins, the grin so large it nearly slips off his face. "Was that what you were so nervous about?"

Gerard shakes his head. He slips away for a second to get the lube from his bag and, okay, this was bad planning on his part, he should have had this all ready, but JC is still just smiling up at the ceiling when he returns. JC doesn't seem to mind that his boyfriend is a bad planner and Not At All Smooth. Gerard lubes up his hand, his whole hand, and JC says, "Oh. Wow."

"Wow?"

"That's...kinky, Gerard Way."

"Kinky, good or kinky, bad?"

"Intimate," JC says with relish.

"Good?"

"Mm."

Gerard draws JC's legs up so that his feet are flat on the bed, his knees bent. He says, "You have to say if it's too much."

"You _worry_ too much."

About the things he loves? Yes. He will not be made to feel ashamed for that. He grasps JC's cock lightly with the hand that isn't busy slipping one finger inside JC. JC says, "Okay, I know you're sort of nervous here, but I need more than that in general."

Gerard says, "Right," and attempts to pull it together, but the thought of what he's about to do, of what is about to happen between him and JC keeps derailing every other thought he could possibly have. He pushes a second finger in, and then shortly after a third, when JC wriggles restlessly. The fourth finger he takes slowly, watching JC's face, but all he sees is desire. JC makes small noises in the back of his throat when Gerard moves to press his thumb in. Gerard asks, "Yes?"

JC says, "Pleaseplease."

Gerard presses in and maybe this shouldn't be hot, but there is nothing, nothing about this moment that is not hot, not the way JC's hand has found Gerard's shoulder and is digging in, digging so deep that it hurts, hurts in the way that it seems like Gerard's efforts must, not the way JC is keening, "Gigigigigi," not the way he is inside JC, more fully than he has ever been, so far that it feels like the sort of connection that cannot, will never be broken. Gerard does not care if it is an allusion. He does not care. He slips in the rest of the way and now there is nothing between him and JC, nothing at all and he asks, "Are you—"

"Good," JC gasps, "so fucking good."

Gerard leans in and kisses at the jut of his knees, down his leg. His hand moves gently over JC's cock, a sort of counterpoint to the extremity of his hand being _inside_ JC. He twists the hand slowly, lets his knuckles scrape over JC's prostate and JC babbles, "Oh fuck yesyesyes, holy, Gee, holy, pleeease."

Gerard loves the way JC talks during sex, the way he almost sings. Another slow twist back and JC can't hold out anymore, comes over Gerard's hand, over his stomach. Gerard uses the distraction of climax to pull his hand slowly from JC, carefully. He crawls up next to JC, pulls JC to him. JC insinuates a thigh against Gerard's cock and the two of them rock slowly into each other.

Gerard whispers, "Did I hurt you?"

"A little pain from you is good. Real. Part of the pleasure."

Gerard wonders how it is that this perfect, perfect person knows him so well, gets him so thoroughly. JC increases the friction just a bit, says, "I had you inside me," and Gerard comes so hard that there's a shock of pain right before the easy, overwhelming landslide of pleasure.

 

 

*

Gerard calls Timberlake because Fatone is married, Kirkpatrick seems fairly—if not wholly—straight, Lance is still in love with Gerard's boyfriend, Mikey is his brother, Frank and him have too much history, Spencer would hunt Gerard down and kill him slowly if he asked Bob, Ross and Urie are monogamous, Walker has his eyes on the Pete Prize, Pete doesn't need to be fucked around with anymore than he already has been, and Hurley, Stump and—most regrettably—Ray are all straight bastards. Gerard has no idea about Trohman; he didn't really feel this was the moment to ask. Timberlake is really his only option.

Timberlake takes a moment to consider his proposal. He says, "Okay, don't get me wrong. Really, really fucking hot. And wow, as birthday presents go, original, but um. Are you sure C's good with this?"

"C's the kinky one," Gerard explains. It's not an answer, except that it is. It's not that Gerard minds doing these things for JC—not at all, not with JC getting off on them like he does, long and so fucking exquisite it hurts to look—but sometimes he worries that he won't be able to keep up. That JC will find someone who will.

"Won't argue that point," Timberlake says. "Okay, man, but if he ends up getting hurt, I'm not only blaming you, I'm telling Lance."

"Kirkpatrick taught you how to threaten, didn't he?"

"No, man. That was JC. Back in the club."

Gerard blinks. His boyfriend can evidently be more vicious than Gerard has, up till now, given him credit for.

"Chris has his own style. It involves a lot of kicking. You'll know it when you see it."

Gerard shakes his head. He can imagine. "I'll send you all the travel information this evening."

"Yeah, okay."

Gerard is about to hang up when Timberlake says, "Hey. Way?"

"Timberlake?"

"So, we got off to a bad start and I get the feeling you think I'm sort of unintentionally stupid a lot of the time, which, probably, so fine. But I do care about him, like with the threat, which I mean, and well. Whether this is a craptastic idea or not, it's sweet in its idea form, you know? That you would do that for him because you think he wants it. That's a really good trait in a boyfriend."

Gerard cannot imagine a single reason why the kid's approval should matter. Evidently, though, it does. Something in his chest that has not loosened since he began to formulate this plan releases. Gerard takes a breathe. It's easier. He says, "I try." He does. So damn hard.

"Yeah, that's. That's a lot."

It's possible that Timberlake's not as stupid as Gerard had previously believed. The thought is upsetting. He ignores it.

 

 

*

JC throws a party for himself the week before his birthday. It is a small event at his house with food catered in from this French place he loves. The French are kind of uber-dependent on animal-based products but Gerard does his best, sneaking into JC's kitchen where there are things he can supplement his meal with. Partway through the evening, JC follows him silently, probably for some quick and illicit nookie and catches him in the act. Gerard is going to apologize, but JC says, "I kinda suck at being the boyfriend of a dry vegan, huh?"

Gerard pops a grape. "I kinda suck at being the boyfriend of a foodie."

"Maybe we're meant for each other." JC smiles.

"Maybe." Gerard takes a handful of grapes and follows JC back to the party.

Karen and Roy are there and Gerard spends some time with them, because he likes them, and because that's what good boyfriends do. Gerard used to be a lot more willing to fuck up than he has been lately. The thought makes him look over at Justin, who's goofing off with Lance. His stomach flips, and Gerard tells himself to lay off the grapes and stay the fuck away from the wine.

The problem is that, Jedi wisdom and all, trying isn't always and can't always be the same as doing. Gerard knows he's stepping up the bar, knows that's important, but what he doesn't know is all the tiny, essential little details, like if this is the direction JC would have the bar go in, or if JC might not get distracted by the liquid, built body of dance and heat that Justin has done a recommendable job of growing himself into. Gerard sucks in his stomach a little. Fuck.

But no, he has committed himself and he can trust JC, he can, trust him not to follow off behind someone longer and lither and younger than Gerard. He can. Joey comes over and slings an arm over Gerard's shoulder, Lance sidling up at his other hip. Lance asks, "What'd you get him?"

Gerard is not unprepared. He actually has provided other presents, just in case. Also, for cover. "Gucci sunglasses and a weekend in Napa Valley."

"You suck at this," Lance tells him.

Joey is glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. Gerard just says, "Yeah, this is not the part he likes me for."

At some point Chris gets hold of the sunglasses and wears them, despite the party being both at night and indoors. He tells Gerard, "They look better on me."

"Okay," Gerard says.

The cake is a multi-layered confection of chocolate, sugar and sin, which is really only appropriate and Gerard eats it because JC looks at him just a little bit hopefully and Gerard is secretly whipped. He tells himself he needs the energy. For later.

 

 

*

Justin sticks around after the party, just helping clean up and joking around and basically being a good friend until JC looks at him a little apologetically and says, "It's not that I don't love seeing you, J—"

Gerard cuts him off. "We need him, Jace."

JC turns to look at Gerard. "We do?"

Gerard takes a step toward JC, reaches a hand out to run a finger along his cheekbone. He thrills at the way JC leans upward into it, the way a cat arches into its human's hand. Gerard says, "I suck at giving birthday gifts, but not _that_ much."

"I liked my birthday gifts," JC says, so genuine and confused that Gerard can't not kiss him, he really can't.

He pulls back a little. "Then consider them the icing."

"I take it I'm about to get the cake?"

"Yes."

"And we need Justin for the cake?"

"He's a main ingredient."

"Seriously, how the fuck did you two find each other?" Main Ingredient asks. JC grins at him.

Gerard slips his hand into JC's, leads him through the house. He throws a look back at Justin, who follows. When they get to the bedroom Gerard waits for Justin to go in, past him, past JC, and closes the door. Gerard pulls JC into him. "We only do this once," he says, and kisses JC hard, just in case JC does get distracted, later on.

"Justin," Gerard calls softly, peering past JC to him. Justin comes as beckoned. Gerard asks, "How long have you wanted this?"

"Gerard—" JC starts.

"How long?" Gerard cuts him off.

Justin shakes his head. "I don't know. Always. Before Britney, even."

JC makes a small sound. Gerard caresses at his wrist. He asks Justin, "You want to undress him?"

Justin looks unsure. Gerard says, "I'd like watching that."

So Justin does, article by article. And Gerard knows Justin has seen JC naked before, probably countless times, but he also knows there's a difference in a how a person looks in a changing room, or in the middle of the bus, and right before a right to them has been extended. Gerard undresses slowly while watching, going through the motions, intent on the part where he is as naked as JC is becoming. When they both are, Gerard asks JC, "You wanna return the favor?"

JC clearly does. Justin shakes under JC's hands. Gerard has seen some terribly erotic things in his time with My Chem, with JC. He is not sure anything will ever surpass Justin's sheer rapture in JC.

JC's smile is kind when he finishes, when he ducks his head to kiss Justin's shoulder. He says, "Hey, Jup."

Justin laughs, shocked and breathless but so very there. Gerard nudges them toward the bed, onto it. He lies on his back and pulls JC atop him, facing him. JC kisses him, murmurs, "Gigi."

Gerard arches just slightly, brushes his cock against JC's. They both gasp. He asks, "You want to suck him?"

JC's eyes rage with indecision. Gerard takes it out of his hands. "Suck him, Jace. Suck him ready."

JC is done just listening, though. He wriggles down to where he can take Justin—lying next to Gerard—into his mouth and does for a few seconds. Then he switches it up, bringing his mouth onto Gerard's cock. Gerard bucks in surprise. JC goes with it, grins up at Gerard mischievously. Then he goes back to Justin. Gerard can hardly differentiate between the types of arousal, the watching of JC with this other built, fluid boy, or the sheer, tangible pleasure of JC's mouth on him, around him. He can only take so much before he drags JC back up, says, "That's enough out of you."

He kisses JC as he puts the condom on, slicks it up, as he presses into JC all in one go. JC pants, "Oh yeah, yeah, that's— Mm."

"Good?" Gerard finishes for him. He pulls JC up a little, presses him back down. JC mewls. Gerard asks, "Want something more?"

JC pants.

"I think you do. I think you like more. Greedy, pretty little thing."

Gerard catches Justin's eye. Justin's gotten himself ready but now he seems unsure. Gerard grasps his arm, pulls him atop JC. The movement sparks something, and Justin places himself at JC's hole, just resting there.

"What do you think, huh, Jace?" Gerard asks.

"Pleeease," JC moans. Gerard gives Justin an expectant look.

At first it's a little hard, a little too tight, so intense that Gerard sees red blossom out of black when he closes his eyes to try and re-establish control. "JC?" he asks.

JC moves himself back, further onto Justin. Justin wraps his hand around JC's hip and says, "Okay, okay, C."

Justin pushes, pushes, pushes and then they're both there, both taking care of him. Justin is shuddering, panting, "Oh fuck, oh," and Gerard soothes a hand over his shoulder, says, "Shh."

Gerard moves them all, just a bit, just a small rock and there's a collective sigh. JC says, "Again."

Gerard gives him what he wants. Over and over and over. JC's cock is caught between their stomachs and Gerard wishes he could touch it, could help him along, but the squeeze is too tight. All Gerard can do is kiss him, is roll and sway and drive. It's enough. Justin stops breathing above them, melds into JC, sinks against Gerard and the combination, the combination has JC keening, babbling, pouring over onto Gerard. Gerard gives in.

 

 

*

Gerard thinks an hour passes. Maybe two. JC is tucked tight between them, his mouth open, pressed to Gerard's shoulder. Justin's arm is draped over JC's waist, his hand resting, large and warm, in the small of Gerard's back. Gerard is tracing lazily at the tattoo on his bicep—not even tracing so much as meandering over with his fingers.

Softly, Justin says, "I should probably get going."

JC is sleeping. Gerard doesn't want to wake him up. He doesn't want him to wake up to Justin having left and not said goodbye, either.

"How far is your place?"

"This time of night? Half hour."

"That's kinda far for three in the morning."

"Gerard—"

"Get some sleep, Justin."

"He needs to have you back when he wakes up."

The statement stalls Gerard. "He hasn't lost me." If anything, the concern Gerard has is the other way around. Sometimes Gerard's big pictures have substantial chunks missing. Like the way Justin wanted JC. Like the way maybe what JC wanted wasn't just something new, something fun. Like the way shiny might call to shiny in this instance. Usually his vision isn't _that_ bad. JC can be blinding, at times. Often, really.

"You shared him, Gerard."

Gerard knows. If anything defines the last night for him—and there are quite a few things that do, not the least of which is the absolute drenching of sexuality, _sex_ —it is that fact.

Gerard is not good at sharing, has never particularly tried to make himself be, not even with Mikey, for whom he really should have. "He wanted you. He wanted...he likes new things. With sex."

"I know all that, Gerard. And I also know that he was confused because you gave him up, just a little."

Gerard's throat clenches to the point where he literally can't speak and it takes several moments for him to loosen it. "I will _never_ give him up." Let him go.

"I suppose that's new for you. He should like it. If you were to just fucking tell him. How is it that you're so fucking bare in all your interviews and you leave him to wonder? What kind of shit is that, Gerard?"

"I don't see that you ever told him your shit. Not with how he reacted last night."

"Never the right time," Justin says, the words a little amused, but mostly regretful. "I was too young and then there was Britney, and I was actually really busy being completely in love with her for a long time. Then, when I was finally over it we were in hiatus and I was recording on my own and things were a little hard between us, awkward like they hadn't been and then there was you."

Gerard can't say he's sorry.

"And I think it's better, you know? I think— This was good. Touching him, being with him. This was good. I don't need to know that I couldn't have been you for him, that I couldn't have made him write and sing and fucking _fly_. There are just some things better left to the maybe."

Gerard doesn't disagree. He thinks that if he were given the chance to do it all over again he'd make the exact same mistakes, but he'd want to skip finding out what he couldn't be for Frank. He'd want that.

"But I swear, if you fuck this up with your bizarre emotional retardedness, I will set Pharell and Timbaland on your ass so hard you won't know what happened to your fourth album and neither will your audience, you hear me?"

"That was JC again, huh?"

"Creative and deadly, the two laws of a believable threat."

"He never tells me these things."

"I think he figures you know how to fend for yourself."

Sometimes Gerard does. Sometimes. He can't say he's sure how JC figured that out.

"I'm gonna go, Gerard. I'll be fine with the driving. I'll call him tomorrow. We'll talk. We'll be fine. Maybe better than we've been in a while. We'll see."

Gerard allows him to roll away. He watches as Justin picks up his clothes, pulls them back onto himself, all sinew and glow in the early morning dark. Justin moves back to the bed and leans over, steals a kiss before Gerard can blink, can pull away, can give it back. Gerard looks up at him. Justin says, "Regardless, thanks."

It's long after Gerard has heard the _roarpurrgo_ of Justin's engine that he's able to say, "You're welcome."

 

 

*

JC sleeps late, which isn't really a surprise. Gerard stays with him, slipping in and out of sleep. He's out of it when JC awakens, stretches even while staying in Gerard's grasp, pulling Gerard more tightly to himself. "J leave?"

"While ago."

"How while?"

"Ten or so hours. He said he'd call later in the afternoon."

"Good."

Gerard says, "I kind of wish— See, I did it because you like the stuff I don't always think about. I mean, I try, but mostly I just like skin and sweat and the stuff that we hide from each other until we're done hiding and you and me, well, we're, I don't _want_ to be hidden from you and you like more and that's okay, because I want to give you it, but Justin says maybe this was a fuck up."

JC is still holding on, so Gerard has hope that it's not an insurmountable fuck up. He says, "I just wanted to get you something special for your birthday."

JC sighs against Gerard's skin. "You being here was special, Gigi."

"I meant—"

"I know. And I meant that even when you don't get all creative on me, you're still not boring. I don't need you to be some person you create for me. I'm not your audience."

Gerard closes his eyes. "I would work harder for you."

JC touches his face. "Hey."

Gerard looks at him.

"Tell me you want me all to yourself."

Gerard rises up, pins JC underneath him, looks down at him with all the force of a full-on possessive glare that he can manage—and Gerard is _good_ at dramatics—and says, "You are _mine_."

"Better," JC says.

"Not mollified?" Gerard asks.

"I think I still need some reassurance."

"Reassurance," Gerard purrs straight into JC's ear. Then he bites the lobe. Hard. Hard enough to leave marks. "Mine."

He works his way down JC. The ear is the only visible place he leaves imprints, but there are plenty of non-visible ones, the pectorals, the stomach, the hips, the thighs. The bottom of JC's foot. JC writhes under the attention but does not pull away, if anything he molds himself into it. Gerard flips JC over and continues his work on the ladder of JC's vertebrae, on his ass. He changes tactics and licks from tailbone to asshole before pressing in and JC shouts, "Fuck!"

Gerard takes the advice. Takes it and takes it and takes it until JC is coming onto the bed, moaning and then Gerard pulls up over him, presses down onto him, whispers into his ear, " _Whose_ are you?"

"Yours," JC pants.

"You're beginning to understand."

 

 

*

When Justin calls at nearly six, they're still in bed, just talking, just being with each other. JC puts the phone on speaker. "Hey."

"You can tell Gerard I'm alive."

"He's listening."

"In that case, I'm alive."

"Millions of women rejoice," Gerard tells him.

"Whatever, Gerard fucking Way."

Gerard smirks.

JC asks, "You get some sleep, Jup?"

"Probably not as much as you, but I'm good."

"Yeah?"

Justin is quiet for a second, "Yeah, Jace. You?"

"We should do lunch in a couple days."

"I'll call you."

"If you don't, I'll call you," JC warns.

"I know. I meant it."

"'Kay," JC says, and ends the call. Gerard would think it sort of abrupt, but he has bandmates.

Gerard lays his head on JC's stomach, tracing one of the bite marks. "Should I have just asked?"

"Asked?"

"What you wanted for your birthday. Should I have just asked?"

"I like the way you try for me," JC says softly. "I don't want you thinking this changes that."

"But there... I mean, I'm not a rules kinda guy, but guidelines, those wouldn't be bad."

JC says, "You're not kidding," and Gerard gets the sense he isn't talking about things in relation to himself.

Gerard starts them off with. "You don't want to be shared."

"I don't want to share," JC says.

This brings Gerard up short. "I didn't—"

"He touched you. He saw you. It was sharing." Up until now, JC has seemed like such a generous guy. But his voice is low and a little distressed and Gerard hears where maybe he wanted to push Justin away, wanted to claim what is his as thoroughly as Gerard has done. The thought is surprisingly appealing.

Gerard has always been wary of allowing others to lay claim to him, even others whom he knew wouldn't use it against him. But JC hasn't asked, not even now, not even really by implication. He hasn't asked. Which somehow makes it possible to say, "You don't have to share me. Not like that." JC gets the band thing. He won't mess with that.

It makes it somehow possible to realize what the right gift was. To kiss JC and say, "This is how it should have gone."

 

 

*

Gerard curls his tongue in JC's mouth, and it would be lazy, indolent, seductive except that it's purely, clearly invitational. JC takes him up on the invitation, hooks his tongue over Gerard's, caresses Gerard's with his own. He brings his fingers to touch lightly at the back of Gerard's neck. Gerard pulls from him—not a break, just a reluctant motion away. "I, um. This is something I haven't done in a while."

"Yeah," JC says, solemn and yet glowing, "I'd sort of gotten that part."

JC strokes along Gerard's neck, tilts his head to fit his mouth over the pulse beating somewhat rapidly in Gerard's throat. He kisses it, laves at it, shows it care. Gerard gets metaphors. He lays back, his hands around JC's biceps, bringing him along, bringing him down. JC follows without struggle. Once Gerard is fully flat against the bed, JC works his way down, slowly. He scrapes along Gerard's collar bone, dances over his sternum, stopping for a twirl or two around his nipples, he holidays at Gerard's navel, and finally, finally comes to Gerard's cock, which should have been the point of all this, only by that time, Gerard has forgotten there is a point.

JC takes his time with that, too, sinks slowly, licks firmly, hollows out his cheeks and only when Gerard is writhing, allowing JC entrance of his own accord without recognizing said accord, does JC slip one very slick finger inside. And that's fine, that's something JC does anyway, because it's _good_ that extra something, even with two fingers. Three burns a little, but JC is patient, so very patient and he just plays, just enjoys this given moment of freedom until Gerard is whimpering, mixing the sound in with the word, "more," and "Jace," and "more."

JC withdraws then, rolling Gerard onto his stomach. Gerard tries to help, but his muscles have other ideas. JC laughs, but it's not malicious, it's delighted. He says, "You're so fucking decadent like this. You spoil me."

Gerard thinks he'll have to consider those words later. For now he's still trying to work with JC's hands, nudging his hips up, supporting them with pillows. JC's hands leave him for a few seconds and then there's the smell of something clean, rain water or leaves in the spring or something that Gerard knows but can only vaguely identify. JC's hands come down warm and firm. JC whispers, "I've been dying to return this favor. Your back, _fuck_."

Gerard nearly swallows his own tongue.

JC works into his muscles, deep but never too deep, and Gerard would try to resist the utter languor but it seems pointless, and likely to end in defeated humiliation. When JC works in the three fingers this time, there is nothing but fulfillment, nothing but, "Jace, please, Jacejace."

"Mm," JC says, and leans over to kiss at the small of Gerard's back. Gerard is well aware that's a sensitive spot on a human's body, but the swirl of fired, explosive pleasure that spreads out from that point is a bit ridiculous, even so. JC works himself in slow and smooth, tiny thrusts, back and forth, back and forth and it's intense, maybe, for a second, too much so, but then JC traces the line of Gerard's shoulder blade with his tongue and Gerard breaths and, "Oh, oh oh."

"Decadent," JC repeats, stressing every last letter.

Gerard knows JC is confused. He's not going to tell him. When JC is settled inside of Gerard, Gerard feels JC's hand, long fingers, warm palms, come around his cock.

JC says, "Slow, all right, Gigi?"

No, not all right, but JC keeps it slow and Gerard can't find the vocabulary to complain. When JC's thumb finally runs smoothly, insistently, over the head of Gerard's cock and he comes just from the easy glide, that little additional hint of pleasure, Gerard can't really remember what he'd planned to complain about. JC is still taking his time when Gerard is done, and Gerard would expect that to be hard, to want to be done, but he likes it, likes that JC wants this to last, wants this to be _something_. When JC can't hold on any longer, Gerard finds JC's hand and holds on for him even as he disperses into pleasure and sound.

 

 

*

Gerard says, "I need help, you know I need help."

JC laughs. "That's possibly the truest statement you've ever made."

"Oh, mean."

"Needing help has made you a multi-millionaire. I suspect you'll recover from my sharp and insulting nature."

"I meant with the house."

"I know."

"JAY. CEE." Gerard is not above being petulant with JC. Not at all.

JC laughs, which is possibly one of Gerard's favorite sounds in the world. It competes with Mikey's laugh, the beat of Bob's drums, Frank tuning his guitar and the slow cadence of Ray's voice when he's trying to get Gerard to listen to him. JC says, "Oregon, huh?"

"You'll like it," Gerard promises.

"I do like Oregon. It's pretty."

"You'll like the house, too. It has wooden floors and high ceilings and a backyard."

"I'm not coming to see the house," JC says.

"I want you to see the house," Gerard argues. He knows, he understands what JC is saying and it's sweet, sweet like every fucking thing JC does, but Gerard wants him to see the house, wants him to see how well he fits in it.

"I'm just saying, you're wasting a hell of a lot of decent to good convincing on me, when I was pretty much converted at 'wanna visit me?'"

It's horrible and awful, but Gerard has to stop for a moment to just take that in, to just be happy about it. "I like making an effort for you. You're effort-worthy."

JC is quiet for a bit. "You okay?"

In general, JC doesn't ask things like that unless it's to a purpose, so Gerard does him the courtesy of actually thinking about the question. "I wish Mikey were here." _I wish you were._

"I— I can't imagine."

Gerard knows. Gerard once read a three page email from JC, sent at three sixteen in the morning, freaking out about Backstreet's decision to record without Kevin and how it was Unholy and Wrong and they had best hope that no deity discovered their trespasses and struck them down with lightning and JC worried about this because Nick was a sweet kid and Brian and Howie wouldn't hurt a fly and he had sort of slept with AJ once or twice and they were on good terms, truly. And Backstreet only has cousins, not brothers. Gerard says, "It's good for him."

"Yeah. Yeah. You're a good brother like that."

"Jace—"

"No, Gerard. No, you're— I don't know if I could've let go like that. If Tyler had been one of my band? I don't know. That was... That was love. I think I fell for you all over again when you did that, when you sent him home, I think."

"It wasn't a choice." Not really, not with Mikey faltering.

"Gerard."

"Yeah?"

"I miss you."

Gerard nods. Something terrible. Fierce. "Oregon."

"I _love_ Oregon."

 

 

*

JC is sitting on his front steps when Gerard pulls up to the house. Gerard sits down next to him and JC says, "Oh good. I was starting to be concerned I'd gotten the wrong house and I was going to freak out some nice, normal family when they came home."

"So considerate," Gerard says.

"Tell me you have the keys, because if not I'm throwing caution to the wind and getting on my hands and knees out here, and if you can resist that, our relationship has bigger problems than I really want to acknowledge."

Gerard's already busy trying to figure out which key is the right one by the time JC is on the word "knees." He's found it by "relationship," and they're in the house by "want". Gerard kisses him when he hears the period. JC grins. "You waited for me to finish my sentence. Such a gentleman."

Gerard rolls his eyes, pulls JC—who shrieks—over his shoulder, smacks his ass for good measure and takes them to the bedroom. At the time that he hired an interior decorator to come and set up some basic stuff before he came—like, say, the bed—Mikey made fun of him for supposedly being incapable of doing it by himself and Ray questioned his manhood; Gerard isn't even sure how that works when one is talking about setting up a house, but Ray made it. Gerard persevered, though, and now that there is a bed with 500-thread count sheets waiting for him and JC—who are both regrettably too old to be having sex on the floor if avoidable—Gerard is ever so glad he did.

He drops JC on the bed and uses his moment of disorientation to unbutton JC's jeans, pull them down over his hips and go to town. Gerard has really, really missed JC's cock. JC plays lightly, almost distractedly, with Gerard's hair and hums, "Mm, Gigi."

Gerard sucks until he can feel the edge that JC's fighting not to go over then stops. "You said something about hands and knees?"

JC scrambles to get just there, having to kick off his pants the rest of the way. Gerard's glad JC had the foresight to wear flip-flops. JC's a good planner like that. Gerard pulls the condom he put in his pocket that morning out and gets himself ready as well. When JC's waiting, Gerard leans over and bites into the flesh of his ass, not pulling any of the force of the bite. JC moans. Gerard flicks his tongue over the skin caught between his teeth and then lets go, rising up and pushing hard and fast into JC. JC says, "Fuck, yes. Like that, like that."

Gerard doesn't slow it down, doesn't stop, just goes until they're panting in time with each other, harmony and rhythm. He doesn't touch JC's cock. He's tempted, but he knows he doesn't have to and that, _that_ is too much of an offer for Gerard not to take JC up on every once in a while. JC comes with a howl, throwing back his head and Gerard leans down, pressing his forehead to JC's back—still shirted—and follows along.

 

 

*

"There are like, _eight_ vegetarian restaurants that will deliver to this area. Five of them with vegan options." Gerard really can't hide his excitement. He loves Oregon, and his grown-up-boy house, and his boyfriend. Life is brilliant.

"Did you count?" JC asks.

"Yes," Gerard tells him. He did.

JC grins and kisses him and asks, "Which one are we gonna start with?"

Gerard says, "The first one on the list."

"Sensible of you."

"You didn't see how long it took me to make the list."

JC laughs softly. "Gonna show me your house?"

Gerard is. As soon as he remembers how to move and actually desires doing so. That time seems a long way off, but he makes himself roll over, crash onto the floor. JC bounds up. "Lazy."

Gerard doesn't deny it, but he follows JC out of the room, takes him into the two guest rooms and then down the stairs to the living room, onto the eat-in kitchen and past to the dining room. He winds back through the kitchen then, to the hall behind the stairs where there's a study. Gerard hasn't decided what he wants to do with it yet. There is something appealing in the thought of an actual study, with shelves and books and a desk, but he has a feeling a studio would get more use, and he has a sun deck for reading.

He shows JC the sun deck last and JC scrunches his bare feet against the wood of the enclosed deck. "This place is you-sized," is his judgment, his eyes crinkling in satisfaction.

They call for takeout and laze on the deck until the bell reverberates back to them, calling them to eat. Thanks to his decorator, Gerard has a kitchen table and chairs. There are no plates or utensils, but the takeout comes with both, so for the moment they are safe. Gerard watches JC put away the food—gearing up for later—and says, "You wanna risk going somewhere with me?"

JC slows slightly in his quest. "Somewhere?"

"There's a waterfall I want to see. Little ways from here." It's in a park, so there probably won't be a lot of reporters, but there will undoubtedly be tourists with cameras and Gerard's not going to act like he's not asking a big thing here. He's not going to act like it's not big for both of them.

"Hats," JC says. "And we behave ourselves."

Gerard couldn't agree more.

"Waterfall," JC says, sounding like Gerard said they were going to see the face of the almighty. Gerard kisses him. He doesn't have to behave until they leave the house.

 

 

*

The drive out is only about an hour and a half and it's completely beautiful, the leaves lush and just on the verge of changing, the sky surprisingly clear. When they reach the park, they each pull on baseball caps. Gerard has dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt, as nondescript and far from black as he could manage. JC has also done jeans with a navy blue t-shirt, nothing of his usual flair. The baseball caps both have names of basketball teams and had to be let out in the back. Gerard's pretty sure he stole them from Frank at some point, accidentally, of course. Or Frank packed them for him in some odd symbolic gesture that not even Gerard can parse. Either way, really.

Nobody looks twice at them. There's an enormous waterfall to look at instead and JC just walks ever closer until they're in the spray of it, which is cold but fresh. JC's breath catches at the feel of it. Gerard wants to put his hand to JC's chest, feel the shock by association, but he remembers that he has to behave.

"You've seen one before, right?" He has to shout a little over the roar of the water.

JC says, "A few, yeah."

Gerard would have been surprised to learn otherwise. All things told, JC's probably been _more_ places, seen _more_ things than Gerard. NSYNC was groomed overseas and never quite forgot it. From the look on JC's face, though, it would be hard to guess it was anything other than his first time. Gerard envies that, loves that, the way JC can make everything new, everything shiny. He suspects the talent also applies to him. He can't say he's unhappy about that. By the time JC turns to him and says, "You hungry?" they're both drenched. Gerard can hardly even feel it.

They squeak all the way back to the car. They stop at a pizza place about thirty minutes away from the park and order one cheeseless and one green onion then park on the side of the highway and eat in the car. It seems foolish to risk any more time in public establishments than necessary. Plus, the view from the stop is pretty breathtaking, a nice way to spend thirty minutes. Gerard drives them back to the house and by that time they're both mostly dry but the minute they get in the house JC says, "Wanna get wet again?" and walks as provocatively as humanly possible toward Gerard's shower.

JC is pretty provocative just standing still. Gerard follows.

 

 

*

JC folds to his knees and sucks Gerard off in the shower. Gerard returns the favor, although probably not so gracefully. JC doesn't seem to notice.

They use the afternoon to unpack the things that Gerard had shipped, the boxes full of stuff that he hasn't really seen in years. The third box uncovers finger paints, the good kind, oil and JC grins at them, clearly excited by the prospect. Gerard says, "Hey, come— C'mere," and leads JC out to the sun deck.

Gerard finds a rag that he can use in the kitchen and evenly applies each of the six colors at the center of the sun deck's floor. The floor is tiled, a nice, inoffensive-but-somewhat-boring light olive sort of color, and the colors clash a bit, bright red and orange and yellow, deep blue and green and brown. He makes a pinwheel out of them, spiraling out. Then he takes JC's right hand and says, "Lay it flat," before pressing it into the paint. He lets JC up and then presses his own hand, his fingers touching the tips of where JC's were.

On either side of the color burst they make handprints, careful that their fingers are always touching somehow, in some way. When the prints are laid, they sit back and watch, watch the paint dry, and Gerard never once wishes he could be doing something else. JC says, "We just totally brought down the value of your house."

Gerard says, "Luckily having you stay here brings it up by enough to counteract the devastating effects of my artistic mania."

JC laughs. "I think you might be getting my visit confused with the fact that you live here. You could leave feces in the hall and that would probably just up the price."

"Don't go giving me ideas."

"Ew." JC wrinkles his nose, but howls with laughter. Gerard isn't fooled. He knows he's got nothing on Chris Kirkpatrick; for that matter, probably Joey Fatone. He reaches out for JC, wanting to touch the laughter, to taste it, and in the end they have to take another shower. Gerard apologizes about JC's jeans, his t-shirt, but JC just says, "Why? They're prettier now."

Gerard thinks "prettier" is awfully fucking hard to accomplish while being worn by JC Chasez, but, "Okay, if you say so."

"I do," JC says. JC can be very stubborn in his opinions. Gerard likes that, too. It reminds him of the parts where JC hides his strength.

"I think I'll try to keep the paint away from your clothing anyway," Gerard tells him.

"If you insist."

Gerard can be stubborn, too.

 

 

*

_November 2008_

"I wanted to get you this really, really super cool cork remover, I mean, this thing, Spence, it could raise your children, but then I remembered you don't have children and Gee reminded me that you don't drink either, so that seemed like a pretty stupid gift, but then I wasn't really sure what to get you guys, but Gee came up with this and it's sort of the best idea ever."

Gerard says, "And by 'came up with it' he probably means that he thought up the idea and I knew where to go to get it."

Spencer laughs at the two of them. It's fond laughter. JC pushes him a little bit. Bob says, "Hands off my boyfriend, Chasez," but when JC gives him a contrite look Bob musses JC's hair and grins at him.

Spencer pats the box. "So...can I open it?"

"Get a move on, Smith," JC says, as dictatorially as he can manage. Gerard ruins it all by tickling him a little and making him jump and shriek slightly with laughter.

"We'd really like it if you would open your gift, please," Gerard says.

"Jerk," JC calls him, but kisses his cheek even as he says it. Spencer rips open the paper. Inside there are two items that look like old-fashioned pocket watches, one with SJS on it, one with RB. Spencer carefully pops the one with his initials open. On one side, there is a traditional clock face with Roman numerals and hands to tell him the time. On the other side is a picture of him and Bob, one that JC took about a half a year earlier at Gerard's party. Neither of them had known the picture was being taken. They were too busy being happy to see each other.

"Jace. Gee." Spencer looks up at them.

JC grins. "So, we did good? Even if it's not really a housewarming gift?"

Spencer grabs JC in one of the tightest hugs he's ever received and squeezes a bit more before moving onto Gerard. Bob asks JC, "You okay?" and waits to get a nod, before trying to kill JC by hug himself. Like Spencer, Bob gets to Gerard, too and then the two of them go to show off the gifts.

Gerard says, "It really was your idea."

"You were complaining that Bob never knew the time."

Gerard laughs. "My creative genius strikes inadvertently once again."

"It does terrorize you," JC says sympathetically.

"And you, by default," Gerard tells him.

"Mm, yes, one of the many hardships I must endure to be your one true love."

"Much like I must bring myself to bear your endless levels of endurance."

"You know what they say about crosses, and us all having them."

"I may have heard that saying once." Gerard pretends to ponder.

JC kisses him, because Gerard's pondering face is one of his favorites. As long as it's not being compared to any of Gerard's other faces. He says, softly, "Think I could get away with wearing a locket?"

Gerard strokes JC's cheek and kisses him back. "I think you could get away with anything you damned well pleased.”


End file.
